Bella Rolland - Super Horny Fun Time

When June sweated past six-thirty, the room felt ten degrees smaller. Allie kicked off her heels first—really kicked, one heel thunking into the corner like it offended her. She unzipped the pencil skirt on the same breath and let it puddle. Underneath? Nothing but a silk thong the color of expired roses and a matching bra strained to the limit by two small, stubborn breasts. She caught Jake staring, grinned lopsided, hooked her thumbs in the waistband and rolled that scrap down her hips slower than manners suggested. Fabric snagged on a single dark curl; she flicked it free with a laugh. Jake tried to lose his tie but she beat him to it, popped each button with flicking fingers, shoving the shirt off so hard one cufflink pinged somewhere unimportant. Belt next—leather hissed through loops, buckle cracked the air. The pants dropped and the whole nation of boxer briefs slid an inch on their own, caught on the wedge of him that had decided tonight was already late. Allie took him by the waistband, yanked him forward until heat printed against her belly. Her tongue wet her bottom lip. No flourish, just grip: skin hot, slick at the tip already, and she gave it one lazy stroke, root to rim, letting the pre-come smear across her palm like it owned the place. "We doing this fast or mean?" she asked, thumb circling the flare like she meant business. Jake answered by lifting her onto the edge of the dresser, knocking half a lamp off, and hooking her calves over his hips so the angle said try me. He pushed, and for a handful of seconds the inch-by-inch gave them both a private countdown. Allie’s breath went sharp when the head caught, stretched, slid, because she hadn’t taken him all day and her body made room like a door whose hinges remembered. Once seated to the hilt she locked ankles, rocked, dared gravity. The dresser slapped the wall in quiet rhythm. Sweat slicked where hip met hip, dragged when she lifted, slipped when she dropped. She leaned back on her hands so the small muscles up her arms stood out and Jake got a postcard view: her nipples tight brown commas against pale silk cups, the hard line of her stomach punching inward every time he bottomed out. Two minutes in she felt the tremor building like a joke that started funny and stopped. "Don’t you dare slow down," she warned. He didn’t. He hit the same spot again, angle deliberate, and her walls fluttered in staggered waves that rang straight up his length and squeezed. She came with one heel digging into his ass, throat raw on a curse and a laugh mashed together, thighs shaking around him. Jake answered a beat later, heat pulsing once, twice, three bone-deep jerks, the kind that insisted this particular minute was claimed territory. They stayed locked while heartbeat settled and thin trickles slid between where skin touched skin. Finally she nudged his shoulder with a toe. "Timer says five-forty-seven. You owe me nine minutes more." He smiled with his teeth. "Clock’s on my nightstand.";