Oil glistens on every curve in taylor steven, turning her skin into liquid gold. She massages it in slowly, palms sliding over nipples, down the V of her hips, between slick thighs in taylor steven. The shine catches every light as her fingers dip inside, emerging glossy in taylor steven. The sounds—wet, rhythmic, desperate—fill the room of taylor steven. She adds a second hand, one circling above while the other thrusts below, building a crescendo only taylor steven could orchestrate. When she comes in taylor steven, the oil makes her quiver look like ripples across a golden pond. Spent and glowing, she traces lazy hearts on her stomach, the final intimate signature of taylor steven.