Sandy loves Kylie

I watched Kylie for months from safe distance. The moment I learned she landed in Budapest, I hunted down a mutual contact who set everything up. Once she crossed the threshold, I thanked him and shut the door behind his back. No witnesses needed. She stood by the window, late light gilding the tops of her thighs where the silk robe split. Her mouth curved when she saw what watching me had done to her nipples, already tight against the thin fabric. When I stepped closer, she let the belt slip from her fingers. The robe sighed open and the scent of her skin—warm spice, faint salt—hit me low in the gut. I traced the inside of her knee, felt the tremble. Then I knelt and dragged my tongue up the same path until the taste turned intimate and she forgot how to breathe steadily. Her hand locked in my hair, guiding, demanding. I took my time; taste, lick, slow slide of fingers. Her hips rolled in short, urgent circles. When she came, it was sudden, thighs clenching hard around my ears, a soft, rough sound breaking free. She stayed standing, barely, one palm flat to the glass while Budapest blurred behind her. I rose, turned her, and eased her forward until her breasts pressed to the cool pane. The contrast of chill glass and hot skin drew a hiss from her throat. I slid into her in one smooth stroke, her body opening and gripping at once. Slow, then deeper, hips snapping sharp on each withdrawal. The rhythm built until speech lost meaning and every thrust carried only the wet, rhythmic sound of skin meeting skin, her small repeated yes. She braced and pushed back, meeting me harder, pace growing urgent. My hand slipped between her legs, found the swollen nerve, and she came again—sudden, loud—clamping so tight it dragged my own release straight out of me. We stayed locked, breathing hard against the glass, pulse still racing beneath flushed skin.