The Last Night

Alice stands in the doorway, her silk robe barely covering her thighs. Sylvia Saige plays it perfectly—the way her hands shake as she watches Gianna Dior cross the living room. Karen moves with slow purpose, each step deliberate, knowing this is their last night. Alice says she wants to thank her properly. For everything that came after the papers were signed. Karen listens, then pushes her back against the wall. The robe slips off one shoulder. Karen takes the cue and drops her own shirt to the floor, exposing her tits, already tight from the chill in the room. Their mouths meet hard. Karen's tongue slides in fast, no hesitation now. Alice moans low, the sound catching in her throat as Karen's hand works between her legs, two fingers circling over her thin panties until they stick to her skin. Karen drops to her knees right there in the hallway, tugs the soaked fabric aside, and licks—slow, firm strokes, then sharper flicks over her clit. Alice grabs a fistful of dark hair and grinds against her mouth. Karen stands, spins her around, bends her over the edge of the sofa. She spits once on her fingers and pushes two inside, pumping hard, her thumb pressed to Alice's asshole. Every thrust hits deep. Alice pushes back, greedy, asking without words. Karen adds a third finger, stretches her open, then reaches for the strap she left waiting on the table. She slides the thick silicone between her own thighs, fastens the buckles, and presses the head to Alice's entrance. One long, steady thrust and she's buried to the hilt. Alice gasps, her face pressed into the cushion. Karen fucks her like she's memorizing the feel—slow at first, grinding deep, then faster, hips slapping skin. Alice comes hard, her thighs shaking, then again when Karen reaches around and rubs her swollen clit. Sweat beads along Karen's spine. Alice turns, pulls her in, kisses the taste of herself from Karen's lips. Neither one lets go until the sun comes up.