Five o'clock tea

The teacups had gone cold. Zafira lay spread across the table, silk blouse open, her breasts rising with each breath. She had reached for me first, fingers impatient, thighs already parted. I sank between them, face buried where she was slick and warm and ready, tongue working her clit in slow, deliberate circles while she grabbed my hair. She tasted faintly of sweat and the citrus still clinging to her fingers. Two fingers slid inside her without resistance. Her legs shook. She came hard, biting down on her own wrist, hips bucking against my mouth. I stood, cock out, pushed in raw and sudden. She took all of it in one thrust. We moved together, table legs scraping the floor, her moans short and sharp between mine. Each stroke deeper than the last, her slickness coating my skin, my balls slapping wet against her ass. She came again when I pressed her knees back to her chest. I followed right after, pumping heat into her until it leaked around my shaft and dripped down onto the polished wood.