The Art of Intimacy: elle brooke squirt

City lights twinkle far below in elle brooke squirt. Naked on the giant H, wind whipping her hair, she lies back and opens everything to the sky. “Fly me, elle brooke squirt,” she begs, fingers plunging in time with distant traffic. Helicopters could appear any moment; the danger makes her wetter. “Everyone look up at elle brooke squirt!” she cries, rubbing her clit raw, thrusting four fingers deep, screaming “elle brooke squirt, title, title, fuck yes title!” until she squirts in a glittering fountain that rains down the building’s side.