Short haired rough mistress

Her cropped hair was short, and dark as a raven’s wing. She had him bent across the kitchen counter, hands braced on cold marble. Two fingers slid deep into him without warning, then three—steady rhythm, merciless pace. His body jolted, hips bucking back against her knuckles, and the first broken moan tore out of his throat. She added pressure, angled her wrist, found that hidden spot inside. He cried out again, louder, the sound ricocheting off the cabinets.