Peeping Jane

Jennifer steps into the shower still stiff from the flight. Water drums on her shoulders. The door clicks open behind the steam. Adriana watches from the threshold, already wet between the legs at the sight of water tracing every curve. She crosses the room fast, hands closing on Jennifer’s hips, fingers digging in, owning the flesh. Jennifer jolts when Adriana claims to be the hotel’s masseuse, but the protest dies the moment those hands slide lower and squeeze her ass in slow, deliberate circles. Tension melts. She tilts forward, palms braced on the tile, breath shortening. Adriana drops lower, thumbs pressing into the arches of Jennifer’s feet, slow, exact. Then the shirt comes off. Bare breasts brush Jennifer’s back as Adriana reaches around, palms gliding over slick nipples, pinching once, just enough to make them stiffen. Fingers trail down the wet stomach and finally part Jennifer’s folds. She’s swollen, slick, ready. Adriana sucks each fold, tongue flat, then pushes two fingers deep and curls them until Jennifer’s hips jerk. The strokes turn urgent—fast, steady, exact—until Jennifer’s cry echoes off the tile and her cunt pulses hard around Adriana’s fingers. Release rolls through her, long, hard, perfect.