She wasn’t supposed to be this good at swallowing. One second she’s gagging on the full length, fingers digging into his thighs as spit drips down her chin, the next she’s hollowed her throat so deep he can feel the back of it—no hands guiding her, just pure instinct. His hips snap up without warning, slamming home like he owns that tight little throat. Then the angle shifts. The bed creaks under him as he flips her onto all fours, knees sinking into the mattress. No lube, no prep—just bare skin and that same relentless hunger. He grips those thick hips hard enough to leave bruises and starts pounding in like he’s punishing something.
