Fashion House #02

India finds the contract in the drawer. One signature away from twenty-four months across the ocean and she's finished reading it before she signs. She tears it up anyway. Downstairs Andy has Prinzzess pressed against the kitchen island, skirt bunched around her hips, no panties. Andy's tongue works in slow, wet circles. Prinzzess grabs fistfuls of Andy's hair and rides her mouth like she owns it. Every time the moan comes out broken, Prinzzess drags Andy's face harder into her cunt. Andy pulls back only long enough to spit on two fingers, then sinks them in knuckle-deep. Prinzzess jerks, legs shaking, swearing through her teeth. Andy keeps them moving, curling, relentless. The island groans with them. Sweat slides down the backs of Prinzzess's thighs. Andy's wrist glistens. When Prinzzess comes she grabs the granite so hard her knuckles go white, thighs clamping around Andy's head, cursing like the pleasure could burn the roof down. Upstairs the torn contract drifts under the dresser. Neither of them notice. Neither of them care.