Jamie Michelle

Jamie Michelle clocks the new guy the second he shows up. Hot. Built. The kind of man who makes laundry day feel like foreplay. She grabs a plant and knocks, calling herself the welcome committee. Jax. Nice name, nicer jawline. She steps away thinking about his arms, comes back five minutes later with an orange and a flimsy excuse, then again with a candle that smells like vanilla and trouble. Third time’s not the charm, it’s the decision. She shows up in nothing but a robe, lets herself in, and lets the fabric hit the floor. Jax’s mouth drops. She smiles like she just won a bet. Two steps and she’s straddling him, fishing his thick cock out of his sweats and sliding it straight down her throat. He groans. She rides next, sinking down, hips rolling while she talks filthy between gasps. Jax flips her, bends her over the couch, slams into her hard until her knees give and she shudders around him. One final thrust and he pulls out, painting her pretty face with hot, thick ropes. She licks her lip, satisfied. Nothing beats rolling out the red carpet for a new neighbor—especially one who can fuck like he means it.