She emerged looking ethereal, dressed in a little black dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. “Beautiful,” he whispered, allowing himself a rare smile, one that reached the corners of his eyes. Her back is to the world, her arms pulled back and resting on the railing thrusting her bare tits towards the camera. His unkempt hair hung over his face like a curtain of grief, the greasy strands clinging to his forehead in defiance of gravity. With the photos in place, Cheyenne looks around at the room that now breathed with a sense of renewal and hope. Her eyes, filled with a steely resolve, scanned the room, taking in the piles of unopened mail, dirty dishes, and the thick layer of dust that coated every surface. The air felt lighter, as if the weight of their grief had been lessened just a little bit. Those were the nights he missed the most. And Larry, despite himself, felt the pull, an echo of a time when desire wasn’t shrouded in mourning—a time he thought was lost forever. The air felt lighter, as if the weight of their grief had been lessened just a little bit. Her tit flesh was exposed below the cup as well as above it.
