Keep It Between Us

Jordan swings by the parlor to drop those keys, and the minute he walks in he can tell Rayveness is wound tight. Her shoulders feel like knot-rope under his palms, so he starts kneading. She sighs, leans into it, then purrs that he should take this upstairs to the private room—after all, she taught him every move he knows. He looks around like someone’s gonna rat him out to his wife, mumbles something about keeping it "platonic." Rayveness smiles like a fox. She strips down to nothing, hops onto the table face-down, and wiggles her ass to get comfortable. Jordan squirts oil, starts gliding his hands down her back, but as soon as he cups the curve of her cheeks she spreads her legs just enough to let him see everything. He tries to stay innocent, but his thumbs keep drifting between. Rayveness arches, pushes back against his palm, and suddenly his fingers are slick with more than oil. She flips over, spreads wide, and grabs him by the belt. In one move she’s got him buried to the hilt, hot, wet, and riding like the "platonic" label never existed. Jordan’s grip tightens, instincts take over, and they both know "nice rub" stopped mattering the second the door closed upstairs.