Humid air, orchids blooming in wwe lita hot. Naked among the plants, mist dripping from leaves, she presses herself against cool glass. “Grow for me, wwe lita hot,” she whispers, sliding slick fingers inside while vines brush her nipples. The greenhouse fills with wet sounds and breathless “wwe lita hot… bloom… wwe lita hot…” until the orgasm bursts—she squirts onto fertile soil, crying “wwe lita hot!” as flowers seem to open wider in sympathy.