She didn’t even say hello when you walked in — she was already waiting.
On her knees.
In the living room.
Hair tied back. Lips wet. Eyes locked on you like a predator about to pounce.
“You’ve had a long day,” she said, her voice low and sweet — too sweet. “Let me take care of that.”
You barely had time to speak before she was crawling toward you, slow and deliberate, her fingers undoing your belt with practiced ease. Her nails scratched lightly over your skin as she pulled you free — her eyes never leaving yours.
She licked her lips. Smiled.
Then took you into her mouth like she owned you.
No teasing. No hesitation.
Just heat, pressure, and the kind of hunger that left you breathless.
She went deep — far deeper than you thought possible — and pulled back with a wet gasp and a filthy little laugh. “You taste like you missed me.”
Her hands gripped your thighs as she did it again — deeper this time. Her throat flexed around you, and her eyes fluttered shut just long enough for you to see the pleasure it gave her. She loved this. Loved being used. Loved taking you so far down her throat it made her moan.
And you?
You couldn’t stop shaking.
She looked up at you with tears in her lashes and spit on her chin, and whispered, “Don’t hold back. Use my mouth.”
You did.
She took every thrust with pride — messy, raw, desperate — until her hands dug into your hips and she held you there, deep in her throat, as your body broke apart with a growl.
When she finally pulled back, breathless and ruined, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled like a fucking angel.
“Now,” she said, licking her lips again, “lie back. I’m not finished with you yet.”