Mona Lisa
Poor Little Rich Girl #1 Scene 4
She moves like lightning, red hair flashing when she climbs him. Mona likes being on top, likes watching her skin bloom against his while she sinks down, hips rolling deep and slow. She bites the inside of her cheek when she works him all the way inside, then lets the sound out—breathy, greedy. Her nails mark his chest as she rides faster, thighs trembling, nipples tight in the cool air. Every thrust feels electric, a live wire between them. He grips her waist hard enough to bruise, pulls her down harder, and she laughs, low and wicked, hair sticking to the sweat on her throat. The sheets twist, cling, soak through. She comes first—sharp, shuddering, head thrown back, red curls spilling over her shoulders—then claws at him until he follows, hips jerking up into her heat. When it’s over, her skin smells like lightning, slick and flushed, and neither of them wants to move.
She moves like lightning, red hair flashing when she climbs him. Mona likes being on top, likes watching her skin bloom against his while she sinks down, hips rolling deep and slow. She bites the inside of her cheek when she works him all the way inside, then lets the sound out—breathy, greedy. Her nails mark his chest as she rides faster, thighs trembling, nipples tight in the cool air. Every thrust feels electric, a live wire between them. He grips her waist hard enough to bruise, pulls her down harder, and she laughs, low and wicked, hair sticking to the sweat on her throat. The sheets twist, cling, soak through. She comes first—sharp, shuddering, head thrown back, red curls spilling over her shoulders—then claws at him until he follows, hips jerking up into her heat. When it’s over, her skin smells like lightning, slick and flushed, and neither of them wants to move.