The Yes List - Talk About It

Vanna Bardot swung into the lingerie boutique on her way home, picturing Codey Steele's face when he walked in from eight hours of lifting concrete and she was standing there in silk and attitude. She picked black lace that barely covered anything—tiny straps, a crotch that opened like an invitation—then rushed home and slipped into it, imagining his jaw dropping. He got back sore, sweating, dust still in his hair. He nodded, kissed her cheek, asked what was for dinner. Her stomach dropped; she’d worn a neon sign and he saw a lampshade. It kept happening. Nights rolled together—tired bodies, quick fucks, silence. One rainy Thursday she plopped next to him on the couch and just said it: they felt miles apart. Codey sighed, put the remote down. They talked. Really talked. She told him the teasing pinches she liked, the rough grip on her hip. He admitted he wanted her to climb on and take charge, to grip his throat and ride until her thighs shook. The list grew dirtier by the minute. She laughed at one point—told him nobody had ever asked her to sit on their face like it was a requirement. His cock jerked visibly at the words. Clothes vanished. She straddled his lap, angled him in, sank until he bottomed out and swore. His thumbs dug into her ass the way she’d begged him to do; she squeezed his throat and felt him twitch inside her every time. They switched, switched again, grabbed, bit, whispered instructions that made each other moan. The edge came fast this time, and hard, because both of them finally knew exactly where to press.