Sensual Relief

Layla Scarlett stands under the hot spray, water tracing every curve like it's trying to win an award. She gives the camera that knowing grin that says yeah, I know what you're looking at. Then someone hollers her name and the show moves to Lorenzo Viota's table. His hands are all business at first, working out knots she didn't even know she had. Then those thumbs stray lower. Layla's not complaining. When she pushes back against his fingers, asking without words, Lorenzo gets the message. He drops to his knees like he's testing the floorboards and buries his face between her thighs, tongue working circles that make her grip the table edges. She gasps and laughs at the same time, the sound bouncing off the tile. He stands, hard and ready, and slides in slow so she feels every inch. Layla arches, muttering something filthy that gets swallowed by the sound of skin meeting skin. The pace picks up. Water's still running. Someone's getting way more than they paid for, and neither of them seems to mind.