He didn’t expect to see her like this. Purple shirt stretched over broad shoulders, but it’s her—stepmom Penny Barber—back arched, thighs clamped around his waist like she owns him. The leather couch squeaks under her weight as she rides him slow at first, fingers tangled in his hair while her other hand grips the armrest. She controls when it gets rough. One second she’s teasing with shallow grinds, next thing he knows she’s slamming down hard enough to jostle the coffee table. Tits bounce free of that lace dress mid-motion. No panties—just slick heat swallowing him whole. No warning. No lube needed. Just raw friction and those dark eyes locked on like she wants to be caught.
