Michael Vegas, Siouxsie Q & Bella Rolland - Super Horny Fright Night

October 31, nine at night, the city pulsing. Halloween came down like neon rain—fake blood, real bodies. I caught her reflection in the black glass of the skyscraper, lips stained crimson, eyes hungry for something that wasn't a costume. She pressed against me before the elevator doors closed, hands sliding under fabric, heat against skin, breath tasting like candy and something darker. Her mouth found mine, sharp teeth grazing, tongue hot, insistent. The doors opened straight into the top-floor suite and we didn't bother looking for the bed. I had her against the door, fingers hooked on lace, yanking, tearing, the sound cutting through the hum of the city lights below. She kicked free of what remained, bare now, nipples tight from the chill of glass and the adrenaline spike, inviting. I dropped to my knees, tongue tracing the line from navel to hip, then lower—wet, slick, salt-sweet. Her thighs quivered, fingers twisting in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. She ground against my mouth, moans short, impatient, hips rolling faster. On her command I stood, spun her, pressed her cheek to the window overlooking the skyline, knees shaking as she reached back for my belt. I slid into her, thick and hard and slow at first, then driving, every thrust making her breath fog the glass. She came once, sharp and sudden, fingers squeaking down the pane, then again, harder, head thrown back, hair sweeping cold concrete. I held on, pace brutal, until my own release spilled deep and relentless, echoing through our bodies like the bass lines still pounding from the street far below. Outside the night kept screaming. Inside, nothing left to hide.