She wasn’t supposed to be so wet. That first night at the beach house, after everyone else went to bed—footsteps creaking on the stairs. The door didn’t fully close. Thick thighs straddling him on that sagging couch, nails digging into his back like she’s clawing for air. No whispering, no teasing—just raw hunger: ‘Harder… I can take it.’ Sweat dripping off her tits every time he slams up into her pussy, juices splattering against both of them. She knows someone might’ve walked in; doesn’t care. Legs locked around him when he tries to pull out—‘Don’t you fucking stop.’ Cumshot deep inside with a groan that sounds half-painful, half-relief.
