More Than A Pretty Face

Cherry Kiss works a camera the way some folks butter toast—naturally. She sends Thomas these coy little looks over her shoulder, then rolls her eyes and slides one bare foot along his thigh like she’s bored already. Next thing you know her toes are tapping a rhythm on his crotch, and the guy’s grin goes crooked. The photographer gives her bootie one last half-hearted click, but the camera hits the floor about the same second he grabs two firm handfuls and hauls her back. “Fine,” she says, laughing, “do your worst.” He does. He yanks her hips, lines up, and pushes past the tight ring like he’s daring her to crack wise. Her fingers knot in the bedsheets, she snarls something in Hungarian he’s pretty sure means “hell yes,” and that round, pretty ass takes every inch, jiggle for jiggle, while he slams forward hard enough to shove her up the mattress. She angles one foot back again—can’t help herself—and drags painted nails along his ribs, still playing, still laughing, even as his thrusts turn the giggles into low, guttural moans.