Dressed to kill

That little scrap of lace sits on Veronica like a fucking invitation. She knows exactly what it does—how it wraps her up and teases everything open. Bill clocks her and his dick jumps. No slow dance, no pretty words. She drops those smooth feet on him and works fast, stroking tight and filthy until he’s throbbing in her grip. Her toes curl around the shaft, pull the skin up and back, twist at the head with every slick pass. When she’s sure he’s right on the edge she climbs on top, sinks down, and takes her own ride—hips rolling, pussy greedy, riding hard while Bill just hangs on and grunts.