SEXY MEET
FREE
AI CHATBOT
UNDRESSGirl next door invites two to wreck her
The air in my apartment was a physical thing—thick, wet, pressing against every inch of bare skin like a second body I couldn't peel off. Three in the afternoon and the thermometer on my windowsill had given up hours ago, its digital face blank from the heat. I sprawled across my unmade bed, sheets kicked to the floor, one arm draped over my forehead.
Sweat pooled in the hollow of my throat. Trickled between my breasts. My thighs parted without my permission, seeking air, seeking something.
The throb between my legs had been building since morning. Not the polite, patient kind of arousal. The insistent kind. The kind that made my hips shift against the mattress, made my fingers curl into the damp sheets, made me bite my lip until it stung.
I needed to get fucked.
No. I needed to get wrecked.
The thought crystallized with startling clarity. I pushed myself upright, skin peeling away from the mattress with a wet sound. The ceiling fan spun lazy circles overhead, doing nothing but stirring the soup of humidity around the room. Across from my bed, the full-length mirror showed me what I already knew—flushed chest, hair plastered to my temples, pupils blown wide.
My wardrobe offered slim pickings in this weather. I tugged open the drawer I reserved for nights out, the one with the clothes that made my mother's jaw tighten if she ever saw them. A white crop top, so thin it was practically translucent, with buttons that were purely decorative. I left every single one undone, the fabric barely covering my nipples, the inner curves of my breasts visible with the slightest movement.
No bra. Obviously.
The skirt came next. Denim, if you could call a strip of fabric that barely spanned the width of my palm "denim." It covered the top third of my thighs when I stood perfectly still. Any movement—walking, leaning, breathing—and everything changed.
I stepped into it, zipped it up, and turned to check the mirror.
The skirt's hem flirted with the crease where my ass met my thighs. Beneath it: nothing. Not a thong, not a scrap of lace, not a single stitch of fabric between my pussy and the outside world. The thought sent a jolt straight through me, a clench of anticipation.
Commando in this heat. Commando in this skirt.
The rooftop bar was three blocks away. I knew it well—the kind of place where office workers shed their ties and inhibitions after five, where the music was just loud enough to justify leaning close to speak, where the drinks were overpriced and the view of the skyline made up for it. The kind of place where a girl dressed like me wouldn't raise eyebrows.
She'd raise other things.
The walk there was a fever dream of hot pavement and hotter stares. A construction worker's whistle followed me across an intersection. A businessman in a sweat-soaked button-down nearly walked into a lamppost. I felt every pair of eyes like fingers on my skin, and by the time I climbed the stairs to the rooftop, my thighs were slick with more than sweat.
The bar heaved with bodies. Music thumped through the floorboards. Everyone glistened, everyone drank, everyone looked like they were one degree away from stripping naked and diving into the nearest body of water.
And then I saw them.
Two men at the far end of the bar, standing close but not quite together. Both tall—the kind of tall that made my neck ache just looking up. Both wearing the remnants of what had probably been respectable office attire earlier in the day: sleeves rolled to the elbow, top buttons undone, ties abandoned somewhere between here and their desks.
The one on the left was broader through the shoulders, with dark hair cropped short and a jaw that could cut glass. Late thirties, maybe. Something about the way he held his beer bottle suggested he wasn't used to waiting for things.
The one on the right was leaner, younger—maybe late twenties—with sandy hair that curled at the ends from the humidity. His laugh lines were deeper, his smile quicker. When he caught me looking, that smile spread slow across his face like honey off a spoon.
I ordered a drink I had no intention of finishing and positioned myself at a high-top table diagonal from them. The stool's metal surface was cool against the backs of my thighs. I crossed my legs. Uncrossed them. Crossed them the other way.
The denim rode higher each time I shifted.
Mr. Jawline noticed first. His eyes, dark and assessing, flicked down to where my skirt had bunched around my hips. I watched the exact moment he realized there was nothing underneath—his grip on the beer bottle tightened, knuckles going white around the glass.
I uncrossed my legs. Slowly. Deliberately. Let my knees fall apart just enough to give him a glimpse of what he'd be getting.
His tongue swept across his lower lip. He nudged his friend, who turned, looked, and froze.
The younger one's mouth actually parted. His Adam's apple bobbed. I could practically hear his pulse from twenty feet away.
I held his gaze and bit my lower lip. Held it until my teeth left indentations. Then I slid off the stool, my skirt riding up another inch, and walked past them toward the stairwell.
The air between us crackled with heat that had nothing to do with the weather. I felt their eyes on my bare legs, my exposed lower back, the curve of my ass barely concealed by denim. I paused at the top of the stairs, one hand on the railing, and glanced back over my shoulder.
"Follow me if you want to fuck."
No coyness. No games. Just the words hanging in the humid air like a promise.
I didn't wait to see if they'd follow.
The stairwell swallowed me in its concrete darkness. Cooler than the rooftop, but only just. My footsteps echoed, and behind them—heavier footsteps, two sets, keeping pace. My heartbeat ratcheted higher with every step. Not nervousness. Anticipation. The kind that made my pussy clench around nothing, made my nipples tighten against the useless fabric of my top.
I made it halfway down my block before they caught up. Jawline fell into step on my left, the younger one on my right, and we walked in silence that was somehow louder than the city around us. Shoulders brushing. Tension coiling.
My apartment door had barely clicked shut before the younger one's mouth was on my neck. His lips were hot, almost feverish, tracing a line from my earlobe to my collarbone while his hands found my waist. Jawline stepped behind me, his chest pressing against my back, his hands sliding up my ribcage until his thumbs grazed the sides of my breasts.
"My name's Marcus," the younger one murmured against my throat.
"Derek," came the voice from behind me, rough and low.
"Jessica," I breathed. Then: "Shower. Now. I'm not letting anyone touch me until we're all clean."
Their laughter was surprised but approving. I led them to my tiny bathroom—barely enough room for one person, let alone three—and cranked the water to cool. Not cold; I wasn't a masochist. Just cool enough to chase away the sticky film of the city heat.
We crowded in together, limbs tangling, the spray plastering my hair to my shoulders and darkening the fabric of my top until it was completely transparent. Derek's mouth claimed mine the moment the water hit us—hungry, demanding, tongue pushing past my lips without preamble. Marcus pressed against my back, his hands sliding around to cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples through the wet cotton.
The water sluiced down our bodies, carrying away sweat and leaving only want.
My hands dropped. Found them both—already hard, already straining. Marcus to my left, longer than I'd expected, curved slightly toward his stomach. Derek to my right, thicker, the kind of cock that made your jaw ache just looking at it.
I wrapped a hand around each of them. Squeezed.
Marcus groaned, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. Derek's breath hissed through his teeth.
"Jesus Christ," Derek muttered.
I stroked them together, mismatched rhythms—slow for Marcus, fast for Derek—watching their faces contort through the steam. Water beaded on their shoulders, their chests, the hard planes of their stomachs. My thumbs found the slick heads of their cocks, circled, teased. Pre-cum leaked from both, mixing with the shower water.
"Both of you," I said, my voice steadier than I felt, "are going to fuck me until I can't walk."
Marcus lifted his head, eyes dark. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Derek turned off the water.
The water dripped from our bodies in the sudden silence, each drop a tiny percussion against the tile. Derek's hand still rested on the shower knob. Marcus's breath was warm and uneven against the back of my neck.
Nobody moved.
Then I dropped to my knees.
The shower floor was slick and hard against my kneecaps, but I didn't care. Didn't have room to care. My vision filled with them—Marcus's long curved cock inches from my left cheek, Derek's thick length hovering near my right. Water beaded on their skin, catching the weak bathroom light. I could smell them: soap and salt and the sharp, clean scent of male arousal.
"Look at her," Marcus breathed, his voice cracking on the last word.
Derek said nothing. Just watched me with those dark eyes, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling in deliberate, controlled breaths that told me exactly how close to the edge he already was.
I reached for them both.
My left hand wrapped around Marcus first—had to tilt my wrist to accommodate the curve of him, the head of his cock pointing slightly toward my face. My right hand found Derek, and my fingers didn't meet around his girth. The difference made something flutter low in my belly.
"Someone's eager," Derek murmured. The words came out rough, almost a growl.
"I've been eager all day." I looked up at him through wet lashes. "I've been wet since three o'clock this afternoon thinking about exactly this."
Marcus's hips twitched. His cock pulsed against my palm. "Fuck."
"Yeah," I said. "That's the idea."
I turned to Marcus first. Opened my mouth and took him in.
The curve of him was a challenge—had to angle my head, relax my jaw, let him slide along the roof of my mouth and into the back of my throat. He let out a sound I'd never heard a grown man make before, something between a whimper and a prayer. His fingers found my hair, not pulling, just holding on like he needed an anchor.
I hollowed my cheeks. Suctioned. Let spit pool around him until it leaked from the corners of my lips.
Then I pulled off—a wet, obscene pop—and turned to Derek.
His thickness stretched my lips wide. The corners of my mouth burned with the effort of taking him, and I could only manage half his length before my jaw protested. My right hand worked what I couldn't fit, twisting on the downstroke, squeezing on the upstroke. His abs tightened. A muscle in his thigh jumped.
"She takes direction well," he said, and the words weren't for me. They were for Marcus. Like they were discussing a piece of equipment.
The condescension should have pissed me off. Instead, my pussy clenched so hard I had to press my thighs together.
I pulled off Derek with a gasp, a strand of saliva connecting my bottom lip to the head of his cock. "Your turn," I said to Marcus, and swallowed him again before he could respond.
Back and forth. Left to right. Marcus to Derek. Derek to Marcus. My jaw ached. My knees screamed against the tile. Spit dripped down my chin and onto my chest, soaking through the transparent fabric of my crop top. I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. The rhythm became a kind of meditation—breathe through the nose, relax the throat, pull back, switch, repeat—and my world narrowed to the taste of them, the weight of them, the sounds they made above me.
"Gonna make me come if you keep that up," Marcus warned, his fingers tightening in my hair.
I pulled off just long enough to say, "Not yet," and then I was on him again, hand and mouth working together, bringing him right to the edge and then backing off, again, again, until his thighs were shaking and his curses had devolved into wordless groans.
Derek made a sound low in his throat. Not quite approval. Something more like hunger.
"Enough," he said.
The word landed in the steamy air like a command. I felt it in my spine before I even processed it—my body reacting before my brain caught up, my mouth releasing Marcus, my head turning toward Derek.
He reached down and hooked one hand under my arm, hauled me to my feet like I weighed nothing. His other hand found the small of my back, pressing me against him, and the contrast of his hot skin against my wet clothes made me gasp.
"Bedroom," he said against my ear. "Now."
Marcus was already reaching for the shower door, already stepping out onto the bathmat, his cock bobbing obscenely with each movement. I followed, my legs unsteady, my skirt—somehow still on—plastered to my thighs and riding so high it might as well have been a belt.
The bedroom hit me with a wall of heat. The ceiling fan still spun its lazy circles, doing nothing. The sheets were still kicked to the floor where I'd left them hours ago. The mirror still showed me exactly what I looked like: hair a wet tangle, crop top transparent and clinging, lipstick long gone, lips swollen from use.
Behind me in the reflection, Derek and Marcus advanced like predators who'd finally cornered their prey.
Derek reached me first. His hand landed between my shoulder blades and pushed. Not hard, but with enough force that I went sprawling forward onto the bare mattress, landing on my hands and knees. The position made my skirt ride up to my waist. Made everything visible.
"Jesus," Marcus breathed from somewhere behind me. "She really wasn't wearing anything under that."
"Told you." Derek's voice was thick with satisfaction. "Saw it at the bar. Right before she gave us that little show."
His hand landed on my ass—not a slap, just a possessive grab, his fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave marks. I pushed back against his palm without meaning to. Without thinking.
"Please," I heard myself say.
"Please what?"
The words stuck in my throat. He squeezed harder.
"Please what, Jessica?"
"Please fuck me."
His laugh was dark and warm and utterly without mercy. "Yeah. That's what I thought."
He lined himself up. No preamble, no gentle easing in. The thick head of his cock pressed against my entrance, and then he pushed, and then he was inside me, and the stretch of it—the sheer impossible fullness of it—forced a sound from my chest that I didn't recognize as my own voice.
"Fuck, she's tight," Derek gritted out.
He didn't wait for me to adjust. Just pulled back and drove in again, deeper this time, his hips slapping against my ass with a wet sound that cut through the humidity. My arms gave out. My face pressed into the mattress, and I grabbed fistfuls of the bare fabric, holding on as he set a rhythm that was less about finesse and more about claiming.
"You want this big cock?" His voice was a rasp above me. "You went out looking for exactly this, didn't you?"
"Yes." The word was muffled by the mattress. "Yes, yes—"
His hand tangled in my wet hair and pulled, arching my neck back, forcing my spine into a deeper curve. The change in angle made him hit somewhere new, somewhere that made white spots dance at the edges of my vision.
"Say it louder."
"I wanted this. I wanted—" The sentence dissolved into a moan as he drove into me again, harder, the headboard banging against the wall in time with his thrusts.
Marcus appeared at the edge of my vision. He'd moved around to the side of the bed, his cock in his hand, stroking slowly as he watched Derek fuck me. His expression was reverent and wrecked all at once.
"I want to taste her," he said. Almost shy. Like he was asking permission.
Derek slowed. Stopped. Still buried inside me, he turned to look at Marcus with something that might have been amusement. "She's got a mouth."
Marcus needed no further encouragement. He climbed onto the mattress in front of me, positioning himself so that the curved tip of his cock nudged against my lips. I opened for him immediately, gratefully, moaning around his length as Derek resumed his pace behind me.
They found a rhythm together. When Derek thrust forward, Marcus pulled back. When Marcus pushed deeper into my throat, Derek withdrew almost to the tip. A seesaw of sensation that left me pinned between them, filled at both ends, unable to do anything but take and take and take.
Spit dripped down my chin. Sweat slicked my back. The humidity wrapped around us like a blanket, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, and the fan creaked, and the bed frame groaned, and none of it mattered. Nothing mattered except the stretch of Derek's thickness splitting me open and the weight of Marcus on my tongue.
Derek's rhythm stuttered. "Fuck. Gonna—where do you want it?"
I pulled off Marcus just long enough to gasp, "Inside me. Both of you. I want you both inside me."
The words hung in the heavy air.
Marcus's eyes went wide. Derek went very, very still.
"You sure about that?" Derek's voice was low. Careful. But underneath the care was a hunger so sharp it drew blood.
I met his eyes over my shoulder. "I didn't bring you both here to be careful."
Something shifted in his expression. The restraint snapped.
"Get on your back," he said.
I rolled over. My skirt was a lost cause—twisted around my waist, soaked through, completely pointless. I shoved it down my legs and kicked it away. Marcus watched the movement with hungry eyes. Derek was already positioning himself, already guiding me, his hands on my hips moving me like I was weightless.
"Lift your legs," he said. "Higher. Wrap them around Marcus."
I did. Marcus settled between my thighs, his curved cock pressing against where I was already slick and stretched from Derek. He pushed in—easier than I expected, familiar territory after what Derek had done—and I gasped at the sensation of being filled again.
Then Derek moved behind him.
I felt his thickness press against my entrance where Marcus was already buried. Felt the impossible pressure of him trying to fit alongside. My breath caught. My hands fisted in the sheets.
"Relax," Derek murmured, one hand stroking my hip. "Breathe out."
I breathed out.
He pushed.
The pressure was impossible. That was the only word for it—impossible, and yet happening, Derek's thickness forcing its way into space that was already occupied, already stretched, already full. My breath stopped. My vision fractured into a thousand bright points.
"Fuck," Marcus gasped, his voice high and tight. "Fuck, I can feel him. I can feel him sliding against me."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Could only feel—the slow, relentless push of Derek breaching me, the way my body fought it for one blinding second and then surrendered, muscles giving way, letting him in, letting them both in.
"Breathe," Derek commanded, his voice strained. "Breathe, Jessica."
The exhale came out as a sob. Not pain. Something else. Something bigger.
He sank deeper. Another inch. Another. The stretch was liquid fire, a burn that radiated from my core outward until my fingers tingled and my toes curled and my mouth opened on a scream that had no sound. Marcus's forehead dropped to my collarbone, his breath hot and ragged against my throat.
"Oh my God," he whispered. "Oh my God, she's taking both of us."
"Told you she would." Derek's hips pressed flush against my thighs. Fully seated. Both of them, inside me, at the same time. "Didn't you, Jessica? Didn't you say you wanted this?"
I nodded, or tried to. My head lolled against the mattress, sweat pooling in the hollow of my throat, my crop top clinging to my breasts like a second skin. The fabric was still damp from the shower, still transparent, and Marcus's face was inches from my nipples. His tongue darted out, traced the outline of one through the wet cotton.
Then Derek moved.
The first thrust was shallow—a testing roll of his hips that made both of them shift inside me in opposite directions. Marcus pulled back as Derek pushed forward. The friction was devastating. My back arched off the mattress, and the sound that tore from my throat was barely human.
"Yeah," Derek growled. "That's it. Take it."
He found a rhythm. Slow at first, deliberate, each stroke dragging against Marcus's shaft in ways that made my eyes roll back. Marcus recovered enough to move with him, matching Derek's pace, and then they were fucking me together, a tandem assault that left no room for thought, no space for anything except the overwhelming fullness of being completely, utterly claimed.
"Look at her," Marcus breathed, lifting his head to stare down at where our bodies joined. "She's taking us so good."
"Greedy little thing." Derek's hand came down on my hip, fingers digging into the bone. "Went out looking for this, didn't you? Walked into that bar with your little skirt and your bare pussy, hoping someone would fill it up."
"Yes." The word shredded my throat. "Yes, I wanted—"
"Wanted what?"
"To be used. To be wrecked. To—" Derek thrust particularly deep, and the sentence dissolved into static.
"To be wrecked," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "Then let's wreck you."
What happened next was a blur of sensation. One of them flipped me—I couldn't tell whose hands were whose anymore—and suddenly I was on my stomach again, a pillow shoved under my hips, my ass in the air. The crop top was torn away. Cool air hit my nipples, and then a mouth was on them, sucking hard enough to bruise. Marcus. Had to be Marcus, because Derek was behind me, already pressing inside, already filling the space they'd both just vacated.
No. Not the same space.
His thumb traced lower. Circled. Pressed against the tight ring of muscle there.
"You want to be wrecked?" His voice was a growl against my ear. "Then we wreck all of you."
"No," Marcus said suddenly, sharply, and the single word cut through the haze of my arousal like a blade. "Derek. Wait."
Derek's thumb stilled. "What?"
"She hasn't—we didn't—" Marcus's hand found my jaw, turned my face toward his. His eyes were dark but clear, searching mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "You said both of you. That included this?"
I understood what he was asking. The DP had been my idea, my demand, but this—this was different. Untouched territory. Something no one had ever done to me before.
"Yes," I said. My voice cracked. "Yes. I want it."
"Use your words," Marcus said, and somehow the command coming from him—sweet, eager Marcus—made it dirtier than when Derek said it. "Tell us exactly what you want."
"I want Derek's cock in my ass." The words tumbled out before I could feel shame about them. "I want you to fuck my pussy while he takes my ass. I want to be so full I can't remember my own name. I want—"
Derek didn't wait for the rest. His thumb withdrew, and then something wet and cool was trickling down the cleft of my ass—lube, where had he gotten lube, maybe one of them had brought it, maybe it had been in my nightstand, it didn't matter—and his fingers were spreading it, working it, one digit sliding inside me with a pressure that made my toes curl.
"So fucking tight," Derek muttered. "Gonna feel incredible."
Marcus positioned himself beneath me—when had he moved?—so I was straddling him, my breasts pressed to his chest, his curved cock nudging my entrance from below. He slid home easily, my pussy so wet by now there was no resistance, just the familiar stretch of him filling me.
Then Derek's hands spread my ass cheeks apart. The head of his cock pressed against my ass—hot and slick and impossibly large. He pushed. The muscle resisted, clenched, fought him. He pushed harder.
The burn was extraordinary. Pain and pleasure tangled together until I couldn't separate them, couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. A whimper leaked from my throat. Marcus's hands found my face, cradled my jaw, held me steady.
"Breathe, baby," he murmured. "Just breathe through it."
I breathed. Derek pushed. The head of his cock popped past the tight ring of muscle, and I screamed—actually screamed, the sound muffled by Marcus's shoulder—and then he was inside me, an inch, two inches, and my body was accommodating him the way it had accommodated everything else tonight: reluctantly at first, then greedily, then desperately.
"Fuck." Derek's voice was strangled. "Fuck, she's—"
"Full," I gasped. "So full. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He sank in to the hilt. Held there. Let me feel it—both of them, one in my pussy, one in my ass, separated by nothing but a thin wall of muscle that flexed and quivered around them. Marcus's cock curved upward, pressing against my G-spot. Derek's thickness stretched me in ways that sent sparks shooting down my thighs.
Then they started to move.
Not in sync this time. Not the coordinated seesaw of before. This was chaos—Marcus thrusting up as Derek pulled back, Derek driving deep as Marcus withdrew, their rhythms clashing and merging and clashing again until I couldn't tell whose cock was where, couldn't tell anything except that I was being fucked from both sides and there was no end to it, no relief, just wave after wave of overwhelming sensation.
"Taking two cocks," Derek grunted. "Taking two cocks like you were made for it."
"Such a good girl," Marcus added, breathless. "Taking us so deep. So deep, Jessica."
I was crying. I realized it distantly, the way you realize it's raining outside while you're safe indoors. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes and mixed with the sweat on my temples. Not from pain—the burn had faded to something else, something electric—but from the sheer overwhelming intensity of it, the way my body had stopped belonging to me and become a conduit for pure sensation.
My orgasm built without warning. There was no gradual climb, no familiar spiral of tension. One moment I was suspended in the overload of being doubly filled, and the next moment I was coming—convulsing around both of them, my pussy clamping down on Marcus, my ass clenching around Derek, my vision whiting out as a sound tore from my throat that was more howl than scream.
"Fuck, she's coming," Marcus gasped. "Holy shit, she's—"
"Keep going," Derek commanded. "Don't stop. Make her come again."
And they did. Kept fucking me through the orgasm and past it, through the oversensitive aftershocks, until a second peak built on the heels of the first and crashed over me with even more force. My legs gave out completely. Marcus had to hold me up, his arms wrapped around my back, his face buried in my neck.
"I'm close," he warned. "Derek, I'm—"
"Inside her," Derek gritted out. "Fill her up."
Marcus's rhythm stuttered. His hips jerked upward once, twice, and then he was coming—hot and thick, pumping into me with each pulse of his cock, a groan ripped from deep in his chest. The sensation of his release triggered Derek, who drove deep one final time and held there, his fingers bruising my hips, his roar of completion loud enough to echo off the walls.
For a long moment, none of us moved. We stayed tangled together—Derek still buried in my ass, Marcus softening inside my pussy, me sandwiched between them—while our heartbeats slowly found something resembling normal. The ceiling fan creaked. The heat pressed in. Sweat cooled on our skin.
Derek withdrew first. The sensation of emptiness was almost as shocking as the fullness had been. Marcus followed, more gently, easing out of me with a whispered apology when I winced. I collapsed onto the mattress, face-down, limbs akimbo, unable to summon the strength to move a single muscle.
"Holy shit," I heard myself say. My voice was hoarse, barely recognizable. "Holy shit."
Marcus laughed—a breathless, disbelieving sound. "Yeah. That about covers it."
Derek was already moving, already gathering his clothes from where they'd scattered across my floor. His movements were efficient, businesslike, but when I tilted my head to watch him, there was something satisfied in the set of his shoulders. Something that looked almost like awe.
"That was..." he started, then shook his head. "Yeah."
High praise, coming from him.
Marcus was slower to rise. He brushed sweat-damp hair from my forehead, pressed a kiss to my temple that was gentler than anything we'd done in the past hour. "You good?"
"Sore," I admitted. "Really, really sore. And really, really good."
He grinned. "Good."
They dressed in silence. I didn't move from my position on the bed—couldn't move, honestly, even if I'd wanted to. My legs were jelly. My ass throbbed. Between my thighs, a slow trickle of their combined release was leaking onto the mattress, and I couldn't summon the energy to care.
The front door opened. Closed. The lock clicked.
I was alone.
The apartment settled into stillness. Outside, the city hummed its endless summer song—sirens and car horns and the distant thump of someone's bass. In here, the fan creaked and the heat pressed down and I lay spread-eagled on my bare mattress, completely naked, completely spent.
Sore. Aching. Dripping with sweat and other things. Every muscle in my body sang with the memory of what I'd just done, and between my legs there was a deep, satisfied throb that felt like a heartbeat.
I'd wanted to be wrecked.
Mission accomplished.
My hand drifted down my stomach, fingers brushing the slick mess between my thighs. I was tender to the touch—so tender that even that light pressure made me hiss—but underneath the soreness was something else. Something smug and glowing and deeply, profoundly content.
The heatwave raged on outside. The fan kept spinning. My eyes drifted closed.
Perfect, I thought. Absolutely fucking perfect.