North Pole #58

Ariel Summers is a straight-up firecracker with a grin that could melt your zipper. She's already two fingers deep, working herself with these fast, greedy circles on the sheets when Peter steps through the door like he owns the joint. He drops to his knees, shoves those slim legs wide, and feasts like a man who just found his favorite meal. Every flick of his tongue makes her hips jerk up, begging him for more, and when her voice cracks and she spills hard, he just laughs against her clit. Don't need to be told twice—Ariel sits up, grabs his belt, yanks him close. Lips stretch, throat gives that slick little noise, and she swallows him down until her nose is brushing skin. Pete's dick feels right at home back there. She comes up choking happy, strings of spit glinting down her chin. The grin she shoots him? Pure gold. Pete flips her, spears straight into her cunt and goes to work. She squeezes, greedy, taking him balls-deep every single stroke. When he starts pounding that spot just right, Ariel's babbling curses and praise mixed together like cheap whiskey. He rides the feeling, pulls out last second, fists his shaft, and unloads across her face—thick ropes stripe forehead to lips, dripping off her jaw onto the sheets like the world's filthiest reward.