Flirty Dancing

Daya Knight sprawls across the couch when Misty Stone bursts in, buzzing about the wedding. She can’t wait to show off her moves on the dance floor. Daya stares, already dying inside. She cuts straight in, voice low, hard: her stepmom can’t dance for shit. Misty scoffs, plants her feet, and starts swinging her arms like it’s still 1998. Daya’s cringe deepens. Finally she snaps, offers to teach Misty something that might not humiliate them both. She stands, rolls her hips, drags her palms down her thighs, grinding in tight circles. Misty freezes, eyes wide—she knows she’ll never move like that. Daya steps closer, slides behind her, grips her waist, moves her. Their bodies slot together. At first it’s stiff, then Misty starts catching the rhythm. Every shift of Daya’s hands lingers longer, lower. Breath thickens. A brush of lips turns hungry. Clothes hit the floor fast. They sink into each other, mouths open, fingers working deep and desperate, fucking like they’ve both been waiting years for this collision.