Sleep Over

Blue-eyed Paris waits until lights out. She knows he is down the hall and her body already aches. The thin fabric of her shorts sticks where it should not. Her hand slips under the hem and she begins, slow, quiet, wet fingers tracing circles until her breath breaks. Then the door opens. Louie steps inside, shuts it, and watches her spread thighs. Paris does not stop. She peels the shorts down her hips, climbs onto him the moment he sits on the edge of the bed, and sinks onto his thick length. She rides him in smooth, rolling strokes, blonde hair brushing his chest, her tight grip milking every inch. He flips her onto all fours and drives in hard. Each thrust pulls a soft sound from her throat. He pulls out just in time, strokes himself over her open lips, and watches his release coat her tongue. Paris smiles with it still on her mouth, swallows, and licks the last drop from her lower lip.