Wet lips glisten under pink lipstick as she leans against the sink, fingers already working herself open before he even touches her. This isn’t foreplay—this is desperation. The mirror reflects her flushed face, mascara smudged from clawing at it during last night’s drunken hookup that somehow turned into a habit. Ass up first. No teasing, no buildup—just raw hunger as he grips those heavy hips and buries himself to the hilt with zero warning. The toilet seat stays down for balance (or maybe just to catch whatever drips). She doesn’t care about cleanliness right now; only that every thrust hits something deep enough to make her bite back sobs.
