Bridgette B

Her husband's barely cold when Bridgette's looking for fresh meat. Widow life hits different when you're built like a snack and need cock yesterday. Doesn't matter that Jax ran with her old man. He's breathing and has a pulse, which is good enough for a cougar with an itch. Hell, he was there at the funeral. Ought to know exactly what she craves. Straight in the bathroom between the service and the wake, pants hit the floor. Jax hauls out a cock so thick it could knock sense into her. She drops to her knees like she's starving for it, lips stretched wide, throat working to take the whole monster. Spit and precum run down her chin while her pussy drools down her thighs. Soon she's bent over the vanity, skirt bunched at her waist, getting railed so hard the mirror rattles. Every thrust knocks loose another moan. Her tits bounce in the glass while she claws the sink and grinds back for more. Jax grabs her hair, pounds until his balls slap wet against her, then pulls out and paints those heavy tits with thick ropes. Cum drips off her nipples. She catches her breath, checks her phone, then shoots him a grin. Happy hour starts in twenty. New dick isn't gonna suck itself.