Francis spent the night at Miranda's place. Morning light, empty house. He's half-lounging on the couch when Angelika walks in hunting for her phone. She bends over the cushions, ass up, skirt riding high, and Francis can't look away. She catches the stare, smirks, and doesn't scold him. Instead she offers the real deal. No teasing, no maybe—straight up: he can fuck her ass. Miranda never gives him that, and Angelika knows it. Francis is on his feet before the words finish. They move fast, clothes shoved aside, both breathing heavy. She arches over the arm of the couch, takes him in deep, and Francis buries every inch exactly where Miranda draws the line. Tight, hot, slick enough that every thrust feels like breaking a rule. They go hard, no slow build, just straight-to-business, dirty, butt-fucking until the couch creaks and she moans his name like she's wanted this longer than she admits.
Francis spent the night at Miranda's place. Morning light, empty house. He's half-lounging on the couch when Angelika walks in hunting for her phone. She bends over the cushions, ass up, skirt riding high, and Francis can't look away. She catches the stare, smirks, and doesn't scold him. Instead she offers the real deal. No teasing, no maybe—straight up: he can fuck her ass. Miranda never gives him that, and Angelika knows it. Francis is on his feet before the words finish. They move fast, clothes shoved aside, both breathing heavy. She arches over the arm of the couch, takes him in deep, and Francis buries every inch exactly where Miranda draws the line. Tight, hot, slick enough that every thrust feels like breaking a rule. They go hard, no slow build, just straight-to-business, dirty, butt-fucking until the couch creaks and she moans his name like she's wanted this longer than she admits.
