Starglow Basin your bloodstains on my custom coutures

In Sayula, the ocelote had lived in luxury with his wife and children. Many families and many generations.

Here, their basin was desolate, with very few pleasantries beyond the woman who enriched his eyes now. She wants him to stare, and he does openly, at the slim tuck of her waist against the swell of fuller hips.

“My given names are Osiel Melendez,” his eyes sift upwards to the silver’s face, “but my friends call me Ocho.” He slips into step beside her, silken coat a pinpoint of starlight.

“You are far from home, Fiamma,” he perceives from the romance in her italiano. “What business does a woman have in the desert?”