Off-Court Smash

Romi Rain was halfway out the door in her tight white tennis skirt when her phone buzzed. Her doubles partner just bailed. Boss waiting on the court. Clock ticking. She spun on her heel and found Kimmy sprawled on the couch, twirling her racket like it was a toy. "Get up," Romi snapped. "You're filling in." Kimmy yawned, flicked her eyes over the older woman, then smiled. Romi looked obscene in that skirt, tight across the ass, and the way her tits strained the polo was almost funny. Kimmy stood, stretched slow, and said sure, she'd play, but first she wanted to see a few swings. Romi narrowed her eyes, then shrugged, stepped onto the driveway, and swung through a forehand. The motion hiked the skirt just enough to flash the crease where thigh met cheek. Kimmy asked for another, then another. Each time Romi reached high or bent low, Kimmy watched the fabric climb and the muscles flex underneath. Romi stopped mid-swing. "You're staring." Kimmy didn't blink. "Faster we play, faster we're done." Romi's jaw worked. Boss. Match. Reputation. She dropped the racket, grabbed Kimmy by the ponytail, and shoved her against the car. Kimmy's hand slid straight up Romi's skirt, found no panties, and grinned. Romi hissed, spread her legs, let two fingers push inside while her teeth caught Kimmy's earlobe hard enough to sting. They rutted quick and mean against the warm metal, sweat already beading under the polo, skirt hiked to her waist, until Romi came with a choked curse and shoved Kimmy toward the passenger seat. "We're late."