Birthday Girl

Leslie screws up royally—he forgets Debbie's birthday. She's waiting in nothing but a lacy black bra and matching thong when he drags himself through the door at nine, tie askew, smelling like printer toner. One look and his stomach drops. She cocks an eyebrow, arms folded under her tits so they spill over the cups, lips painted the color of sin. He starts apologizing in bursts, kicks off his shoes, drops his briefcase, promises dinner, a foot rub, hell, anything. Compensation turns hands-on fast. He peels the bra down, mouths both nipples until she whimpers, then yanks the thong aside and licks straight up her slit while she's still standing. Her knees buckle; he catches her, carries her to the couch. Jeans hit the floor, cock springs free, and he sinks into her slick heat in one long thrust. Every stroke is apology and promise, hips snapping until sweat beads on his back. She claws his shoulders, legs locked around him, moaning his name like she's never been mad at all. When she clenches and comes, he follows, groaning her name against her neck and vowing birthday sex on demand for the rest of the year.