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Out.
Grinding into her until my glutes shake.
I thrust.
In.
Out.
Marisol mewls. “Bi… Bis… I—nnh.”
Don’t lose it. Not yet.
I thrust.
In.
Out.
Trapping her on the edge of desperation as I train her body to expect a sweeter payoff.
“Hold the counter,” I grit. “Don’t move your hips.”
She has to hold on because I can’t.
Not with this body.
This scent.
In.
Ou–oh fuck.
She clamps my shaft.
White-knuckling the counter, thighs quivering, she innocently tips back her throat. “I didn’t move my hips.”
Her pussy fits like it’s bespoke. I rock into her lush slickness, testing her grip as my neck spasms.
Refusing to let her control the pace, I stroke.
Back in. Hitting slow. Hitting deep.
Withholding my knot.
Her sucking tightness begs me to bury myself—knot, cock, and teeth.
I smooth my queen’s flushed cheeks.
In no makeup but her natural coloring, her golden hair swinging wild and free, she’s Marisol unleashed.
I’m going to drip her in name brands, but nothing’s more luxurious than her bare skin. Her open throat. Those wide, unguarded eyes.
Her body shakes as hard as mine.
Vibrating on the edge.
Fearless, she bares her scars.
