She plays it cool—pretends to be tidying up—but those fingers? They’re wrapped around his waist like a vise. Bent over the armrest of that same couch where they shouldn’t be, ass high in the air while he slams into her from behind. Her breath hitches when he pulls out slow, just to slam back in harder. Then she turns around on him—straddling his hips with zero hesitation—and rides him until both of them are slick with sweat and something else entirely. The way she moans his name like a secret is what gets you every time. No lube needed. No shame either.
