The Hidden Charm of cottontailva feet

In cottontailva feet, barista Chloe locks the café door after closing and invites her favorite regular onto the counter. Espresso scent lingers as whipped cream becomes body paint in cottontailva feet. She licks it from his chest before he returns the favor between her thighs. The cold marble contrasts with their heat in cottontailva feet, her apron the only thing left on. They grind together like beans in a burr mill until the steamer’s hiss is drowned out by her climax echoing through the empty shop in cottontailva feet.