Caught In The Moment

James freezes mid-step. There she is—his nineteen-year-old house cleaner, buck naked, crouched on the rug like she forgot her clothes are still in the dryer. Their eyes lock. Heat crawls up her face; a slow, brave smile curls her mouth instead. "Caught me," she says, voice small. Then, softer: "I’ve wanted you to see." She stands without grabbing a towel, nipples tight, hips swaying like they already knew the script. "You’re my first. You still want that?" His cock answers before he does, thick and obvious against his zipper. The girl’s gaze drops, appetite plain. Two steps and she’s pressing into him, breasts flattening against his shirt, slick heat radiating from between her bare legs. James hooks one arm under her thighs, lifts her onto the kitchen table. The wood creaks as she spreads. Her skin smells like the sweet detergent she uses on his sheets; every inch perfect, fresh, unclaimed. He frees himself, the blunt head gliding along her folds once, twice, then easing inside. She gasps at the stretch. Tight—gripping him like satin—and every inch pure wet welcome. "More," she whispers, heels digging into his back. He sinks deeper, careful, savoring. Her little sounds skim his ear: stuttered breath, giggles between moans when he rocks into the spot that makes her toes curl. He fucks her steady, deeper with every thrust, until nothing’s left to give and every wet slap of skin echoes off the cabinets. When she clamps down, nails biting his shoulders, James follows—burying a hoarse curse into the soft bend of her neck as heat pulses out of him in deep, trembling spurts. She keeps him snug inside, smiling that crooked half-grin at the ceiling. "Told you I had a crush," she murmurs, arms draped around his shoulders. "Worth the wait?"