Cleopatra Does Hollywood - Part 2

The punch landed wet. The thief crumpled against the concrete, blood threading from his mouth like spilled wine. Cleopatra watched from the shadows, breath caught. The biker wiped his knuckles on his denim, breathing heavy, shoulders heaving. She told herself it was Marcus Antonius reborn. Same back, same stance, same animal quiet after the violence. They rode hard to his place. Boots clattered across bare floorboards. The blonde already waited inside—short skirt, long legs crossed on the couch like sin on display. Cleopatra closed the door. Locks clicked into place. Marcus stripped the leather off. Scars ran down his ribs, pale against tanned skin. The blonde pulled her top overhead; nipples tightened in the chill. Cleopatra stepped out of the gauze dress, let it pool at her feet. Her gold anklet caught the lamplight and flashed. Hands moved quick. Marcus buried his face between Cleopatra’s thighs and licked once—slow, claiming. The blonde kissed Cleopatra open-mouthed, tongues sliding, tasting sweat. Fingers found her—Marcus pushing two thick digits inside while the blonde circled her clit with wet precision. Cleopatra arched, moaned low, caught between the two. The blonde sank onto the couch, spread, waiting. Cleopatra dropped to her knees, mouth greedy on swollen pink flesh, tasting salt and heat. Marcus stood behind, cock heavy, nudged Cleopatra’s thighs wider, then thrust inside her with one long stroke. Her moan vibrated through the blonde’s cunt; the blonde’s hips bucked up in reply. Marcus fucked her steady, deep, each drive pushing her mouth harder onto the blonde. Sweat slid down Cleopatra’s spine, dripped onto the carpet. The blonde came first—sharp cry, thighs clamping Cleopatra’s head. Marcus followed with a growl, flooding her, palm pressed to the small of her back to hold her still while he emptied. When he pulled out, cum leaked down her thigh, warm and slick. The blonde leaned down and licked it clean.