Stroke after stroke, her hand moved faster now—no longer tentative, but confident, hungry.
Her soft fingers wrapped firmly around his cock, gliding in a slick, steady rhythm that made his breath hitch with every pass.
Her palm worked him expertly, moving in quick up-and-down strides, cupping his shaft, while her other hand teased the tip of his cock—her motions fluid, practiced.
Behind him, he could feel the press of her breasts—soft, full, alive.
Even as they were pressed to his back, they seemed to ripple with every movement of her arms, every flick of her wrists.
The wet heat between her thighs was growing unbearable, a throbbing ache pulsing in time with her strokes.
It consumed her, flooded her thoughts, made her bite her lip as desire twisted deeper into her core.
She didn't stop. She couldn't.
Her hands kept moving, stroking him harder, faster. Her breath came faster now, warm against his neck, her skin flushed with need.
