Gotcha! 3

Lenina pushed through the door reeking of sweat and cunt and strange perfume, her thighs still slick. She found Marcus in the kitchen, half-drunk and staring at his phone. The minute he looked up she grabbed his collar and slammed him against the fridge. Their teeth clashed; then she hiked her skirt, shoved his hand between her legs, let him feel what they’d left inside her. “Take your dick out,” she hissed. Marcus fumbled, hard already, eyes wide like he’d just walked into someone else’s dirty dream. Lenina turned, bent over the counter, ass arched, and dropped one word like a dare: “Now.” He shoved in rough, no ceremony. She took every inch and still wanted more—Karina’s fingerprints on her hips, Charlie’s spit on her tits. Her cunt clenched at the memory and made Marcus groan, made his thrusts jerk and stutter. She came quick and ugly, grinding back until her knees hit the cabinets, wet slapping echoing off tile. Marcus spilled with a choked grunt, but she kept moving, milking him till he slipped out slick and shaking. Only then did she straighten, breathe once, and grin. “Baby,” she whispered, “you have no idea how much we’re about to fuck.”