Her face flushes crimson when she realizes someone’s watching from behind the curtain—pretends to adjust her robe but doesn’t cover herself. Feet are painted red, stockings tight against thick thighs. He kneels between them without asking, tongue tracing slow circles before slipping inside that warm slit. The couch creaks under her as she arches back, nails digging into his shoulders when he finally buries himself deep inside. She gasps like it’s been too long—moans so loud you’d think the neighbors heard—but no one does except you. Then there’s the wet slap of skin meeting skin again and again as he flips her onto all fours. No foreplay needed here: just raw hunger.
