Stuck In Public

Sabina is bent over, arm pinned under the couch leg, dark hair wound tight. Every tug makes the knot worse. She swears under her breath, then louder when the door chimes. Brooklyn steps in from the streetlight, stops short, eyes sliding straight to the arch of Sabina’s back, the rise of her natural tits beneath the thin shirt, the tattoos curling along her ribs. Brooklyn kneels. "Need a hand?" "Hair’s caught," Sabina mutters. "Just pull it free." Brooklyn reaches, but her fingers linger on the curve of Sabina’s waist instead. The touch drifts lower, brushing the soft hair between her thighs. Sabina exhales, a small, surprised sound. Brooklyn’s knuckles press again, slower this time, parting her folds, sliding inside with two easy fingers. Sabina’s head drops. "Fuck, you’re impossible." Brooklyn smiles against her shoulder, adds another finger, works the wet heat in steady strokes. The couch leg holds Sabina exactly where she is; she can only push back, hips rolling into each thrust. Brooklyn’s thumb circles her clit, light then firm, until Sabina’s breath turns ragged and she comes with a low moan that echoes off the empty tables. The last strands of hair slip loose at last. Brooklyn pulls her fingers out, glistening, and licks them clean. Sabina straightens, cheeks flushed, hair wild. "Lock the door," she says, already reaching for Brooklyn’s belt.