...you weren’t supposed to see this. Montse leans over the stove, ass pushed out in those tight gray shorts, when suddenly her hands slide down—rip—the fabric tears just enough for fingers to slip inside. She moans into the microwave timer beep, hips rocking like she’s cooking something else entirely. Then that smirk again as she catches your reflection in the oven window. Next thing you know, tits spill over the edge of a pot handle while she ‘accidentally’ bumps it with one elbow—clatter—but neither of you care about broken dishes now.
