She’s got that ‘I shouldn’t be doing this’ smirk as she kneels over him on the couch, tits bouncing in that tiny black lace. Green stilettos digging into his back like she’s marking her territory. Then—oh fuck—the way she arches her back when he pulls out, slow and deliberate. Ass up first, legs spread wider than any guest chair should handle. The creaking of the sofa isn’t from weight; it’s from her rocking backward until he’s buried so deep his knuckles flash white. She knows someone’s peeking through the door but keeps those heels tapping against the floor like a metronome for another round.
