Aubrey for Dinner 3

Brittany and Jaxson weren't lying. This guy actually knows what he's doing. His fingers slip right between her thighs like they've been itching to get there all damn day, and suddenly her knees don't work quite right. He doesn't waste time being polite about it, either. Those hands spread her open, press deeper, and the next thing she knows her hips are already chasing every slow circle he makes. His middle finger finds that spot inside her that makes everything go hot and tight, and he just stays there, working it steady while his palm grinds up against her clit with zero shame. She hears herself make this low, greedy sound and doesn't even try to bite it back. His other hand grabs her hip like she's about to bolt, but she isn't going anywhere. She's already wet enough to feel it coating his knuckles. He laughs once under his breath, low and pleased, like he knew exactly how fast she'd open up for him. Then he twists his wrist just enough to push two fingers inside, curling them right where she wants it, and she bites her lip so hard it might bruise. No pretending now. The table creaks under her as she rolls her hips down to meet every stroke, legs spread wider than she meant to, dripping down his wrist. He keeps her right there, teasing and relentless, fingers buried deep while his thumb works over that swollen spot like it's the only thing he cares about. She's soaking him, moaning without any rhythm, hips jerking every time he curls just right. He leans in close, voice low, and mutters something filthy about how eager she is for someone supposedly here "just for a massage." His fingers thrust harder to make the point, slick sounds filling the room, and she couldn't give less of a damn.