Rizzo Ford and Ana Foxx play a round of pool

Rizzo Ford and Ana Foxx are two hours into a lifeless game of pool, chalk dust on their fingers, yawns barely hidden. They trade a look across the green felt and laugh at the same time. "Screw this," someone says. The rules switch fast—every shot missed means another piece gone. Shoes first, then shirts, jeans sliding off hips. They circle the table half-naked now, a stripe of sunlight from the blinds cutting across Ana's bare stomach. The next missed ball is the last straw. The cue clatters to the floor. Hands replace the game. Rizzo catches Ana's wrist and pulls her close, mouths meeting, slow and open-mouthed. Fingers trace the edge of remaining lace; they push, tug, and panties drop. Ana hops onto the rail, legs parted, the table light catching slick skin. Rizzo slides two fingers between her lips, working them deeper until Ana's breath stutters. A short, wet sound fills the room. She drops to her knees on the hardwood, tongue flicking, lips sealing tight. Ana's hands fist in her hair and her head tips back. They move from there without hurry—Rizzo stands, kisses her own taste off Ana's mouth, then turns, palms flat on the felt. Ana steps in behind, hips rolling, one hand pressing down between shoulder blades while the other works between her thighs. They grind, slide, and finally sink together, the heavy table shuddering under each thrust. The cue ball spins unused, forgotten in a corner pocket. Sweat beads on collarbones. Small, helpless sounds echo off the walls. They finish hard, clutching, legs shaking, breathing like they've sprinted miles.