The June sun blazed overhead as you and Freya wandered the countryside, the heat clinging to your skin like silk. Then—hidden behind overgrown hedges—you discovered it: a forgotten garden where time stood still.

Vines coiled over broken trellises, casting dappled shade. Dry haystacks became your sanctuary. Freya, flushed and breathless, shed her layers until only a sheer white lace chemise remained. She laughed softly, her hat shielding nothing—her full breasts pressing against delicate lace, every breath making the fabric rise and fall.

The air shimmered with heat, but the fire between you was far hotter.