"Can we please fuck again?"
Devon didn't speak.
His eyes—dark, burning, predatory—locked on her like lasers, cutting through the humid, sex-thick air, glinting sharp in the golden sunlight slanting through the half-open blinds.
His cock—still rock-hard, veins pulsing thick and angry, head flushed dark purple and shiny with her cream—twitched hard, a fresh bead of pre-cum pearling slow and fat at the slit, dripping thick onto the piss-soaked hardwood, splashing faint in the puddle.
He stepped forward slow, bare feet silent, crunching soft over mug shards and sticky piss puddles, muscles flexing hard under the light, every ridge catching gold, scars glowing faint like war trophies etched in skin.
The air smelled heavy, jasmine twisted dark with musk, cum, squirt, piss, and sweat.
Amara rose slow from the leather armchair—regal, naked, goddess, a queen carved from sin and sweat and cum, skin glistening wet under the light.
