Andrea presses Cindy into the leather chair like she's grilling a suspect. The lamplight cuts across Cindy's face and Andrea leans close, voice low and rough. "Spill it, doll. Who pulled the trigger?"
Cindy's lips part, ready with another lie, when the phone shrills. Andrea curses, grabs it, and listens. The party's off. Host got sick. End of story.
She sets the receiver down. Both women stare at each other. "Guess we dressed for nothing," Andrea says. But the fedora still sits on her head and the trench coat still hangs open, and neither of them moves to take the costumes off. Cindy lifts her chin. "You were saying, detective?"
Andrea's mouth curves. She steps forward again, knuckles under Cindy's jaw, tilting her face up. "I was saying you look guilty as sin." She kisses her hard, teeth clicking, tongue pushing deep. Cindy's hands slide under the coat, fingers digging into Andrea's hips, pulling her closer. Fabric rustles. The fedora tips.
Andrea shoves Cindy's legs apart with her knee and grinds in. Heat meets heat through thin silk panties. Cindy gasps into her mouth and rocks up, slick already soaking the fabric. Andrea yanks the panties aside and pushes two fingers straight inside, thumb circling Cindy's clit in tight, deliberate strokes. Cindy swears, head tipping back, throat exposed. Andrea bites the tendon there, sucks until the skin darkens.
They stumble to the couch. Andrea strips the coat off, then the shirt. Her tits spill free, nipples tight. Cindy palms one, sucks the other, teeth grazing. Andrea's fingers stay buried, pumping steady, curling just right until Cindy's thighs shake. "Don't stop, detective," Cindy pants. Andrea laughs once, low, and adds a third finger.
Wet sounds fill the room. Cindy comes with a broken cry, clenching around Andrea's hand, but Andrea doesn't pull out. She keeps working her through it, slower now, until Cindy tugs at her belt. Andrea stands, sheds slacks and underwear in one motion, then straddles Cindy's face. Cindy licks her open, tongue flat and greedy, nose buried. Andrea grinds down, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other pinching her own nipple. She comes fast, hips stuttering, thighs slick against Cindy's cheeks.
They don't break character. Andrea slides back down, kisses the taste of herself from Cindy's mouth, and murmurs, "Still think you can walk out of here without confessing?" Cindy spreads her legs wider, invitation and challenge both. Andrea pushes back inside her and starts again, slower this time, the night stretching ahead with nothing left to interrupt them.
Andrea presses Cindy into the leather chair like she's grilling a suspect. The lamplight cuts across Cindy's face and Andrea leans close, voice low and rough. "Spill it, doll. Who pulled the trigger?"
Cindy's lips part, ready with another lie, when the phone shrills. Andrea curses, grabs it, and listens. The party's off. Host got sick. End of story.
She sets the receiver down. Both women stare at each other. "Guess we dressed for nothing," Andrea says. But the fedora still sits on her head and the trench coat still hangs open, and neither of them moves to take the costumes off. Cindy lifts her chin. "You were saying, detective?"
Andrea's mouth curves. She steps forward again, knuckles under Cindy's jaw, tilting her face up. "I was saying you look guilty as sin." She kisses her hard, teeth clicking, tongue pushing deep. Cindy's hands slide under the coat, fingers digging into Andrea's hips, pulling her closer. Fabric rustles. The fedora tips.
Andrea shoves Cindy's legs apart with her knee and grinds in. Heat meets heat through thin silk panties. Cindy gasps into her mouth and rocks up, slick already soaking the fabric. Andrea yanks the panties aside and pushes two fingers straight inside, thumb circling Cindy's clit in tight, deliberate strokes. Cindy swears, head tipping back, throat exposed. Andrea bites the tendon there, sucks until the skin darkens.
They stumble to the couch. Andrea strips the coat off, then the shirt. Her tits spill free, nipples tight. Cindy palms one, sucks the other, teeth grazing. Andrea's fingers stay buried, pumping steady, curling just right until Cindy's thighs shake. "Don't stop, detective," Cindy pants. Andrea laughs once, low, and adds a third finger.
Wet sounds fill the room. Cindy comes with a broken cry, clenching around Andrea's hand, but Andrea doesn't pull out. She keeps working her through it, slower now, until Cindy tugs at her belt. Andrea stands, sheds slacks and underwear in one motion, then straddles Cindy's face. Cindy licks her open, tongue flat and greedy, nose buried. Andrea grinds down, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other pinching her own nipple. She comes fast, hips stuttering, thighs slick against Cindy's cheeks.
They don't break character. Andrea slides back down, kisses the taste of herself from Cindy's mouth, and murmurs, "Still think you can walk out of here without confessing?" Cindy spreads her legs wider, invitation and challenge both. Andrea pushes back inside her and starts again, slower this time, the night stretching ahead with nothing left to interrupt them.
