Every time she bent forward just slightly, the skirt rode up just enough to tease the smooth, toned skin of her upper thighs, the shadow of her cleavage visible where her blouse dipped low.
Fuck.
I stepped closer, my cock already half-hard from the sight of her, my mind flooding with filthy images of grabbing that ass, spreading her cheeks, and slamming into her right here in this kitchen—while Emily watched, her mouth open in shock, her pussy dripping with jealousy.
Jennifer turned slightly, handing me a stack of plates, her dark, smoldering eyes flicking up to meet mine for just a second. There was disdain there—she clearly didn't like Mike—but there was something else, too. Something hotter. Something angrier.
"Here," she said, her voice sharp, her full lips pressed into a thin line. "Take these to the table."
I reached for the plates, my fingers brushing against hers—on purpose. She stiffened, her eyes flashing with irritation, but she didn't pull away.
Not yet.
