Maya Hills What He Doesn't Know

Maya Hills plants her knees on the bedspread and peels your fly open with her teeth. She drags your cock free like she's unwrapping contraband—warm breath, soft hand—then she slurps you down till her nose hits your pelvis. She gags once, fights it, settles into a steady throat-fuck while her free fingers crawl up your thigh and press hard against that spot behind your balls. Every bob lets her saliva spill in strings; she pulls off, grins with spit still connecting her lip to your tip, then dives back down, swallowing tighter than before. “Tell me you’ve done this before, daddy,” she taunts, voice sticky. Then, without pause, she climbs astride, shoves the head straight between her glossy lips, and sinks until her ass cheeks slap your thighs. She rides fierce—short, urgent strokes that keep the clench hottest at the bottom—working you deep inside her clenching pussy while you stare at the wedding band on her finger glistening with your spit.