Pulling In And Out

They barely tumble through the door before Max grabs her ankle again. Angel laughs, twists free, and makes a run for the stairs. Her heels click once on the bottom step. That’s as far as she gets. Max’s arms close around her waist from behind and suddenly they’re kissing like the world just restarted. He’s hard against her thigh, straining the zipper, and Angel’s hand goes straight there. She palms the length through denim, gives him a playful squeeze, then yelps when he lifts her half off her feet. The staircase is narrow and cold against her back; they don’t care. Angel hikes one leg up his hip, heel hooked behind his thigh. Their mouths slide together, hot and sloppy, while her other foot finds the rising bulge and rubs slow, lazy circles. Max groans, shoves both of them sideways, and they crash onto the couch in a tangle of limbs. In one yank he frees himself; in the next he’s sheathed inside her. Her stockings whisper against his waist while she curls her toes against his bare ass, giving him that same teasing pressure with every thrust. They rock, laughing between gasps, the couch creaking beneath them like it’s on the verge of a complaint.