Bachelorette Bet

Holly wiped down another sticky glass, the last of the bachelorette mess. Emma, her red hair loose and heavy, leaned on the counter with that smirk she always wore when she knew something nobody else did. "You really think that girl earned her money?" Emma asked. Holly froze mid-wipe. "She wasn’t half bad," Holly said, defensive. Emma snorted, tits rising under her tank top. "Please. My dead grandmother has better rhythm." They went back and forth, Holly bristling, Emma needling, until Emma leaned in close enough that Holly caught the heat off her skin. "Bet I can do better. I’ll give you a lap dance. If I get you wetter than she did, you owe me an orgasm." Holly’s face burned. She was getting married in a week. But the idea of Emma grinding on her sent a fast, sharp pulse straight between her thighs. She sat down hard on the kitchen chair, knees apart, already braced. Emma stepped in, hips rolling slow, big natural tits brushing Holly’s cheek. Heat pooled fast. Every sway dragged denim over denim until Holly’s breath hitched. Emma’s thigh pressed up, found the seam of Holly’s shorts, ground right there. Holly’s fingers dug into the wood. When Emma finally pulled back, smirk wider, Holly’s thighs were shaking and she knew she’d lost. She slid off the chair onto her knees without another word, dragging Emma’s zipper down. Emma’s hand tangled in Holly’s hair as Holly’s tongue found her, licking deep and greedy. Emma moaned once, low, then shoved Holly onto her back and swung a thigh over her face. Sixty-nine on the kitchen floor, Holly’s mouth full of Emma while Emma’s fingers slid in slick and sure, curling, pumping. Holly came first, muffled against Emma’s cunt. Emma didn’t stop until Holly’s second orgasm left her shaking. Then she sat up, licked her fingers, eyes bright. "Told you the stripper sucked."