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