Anal fun

She walks into a room and the air shifts. Cherry. Russian. Hair like ink, eyes that hold promises most men never earn. Our first night together in Italy, I felt my restraint crack the moment she smiled at me across the dinner table. I excused myself before dessert. She followed. In the hotel lift I pressed her against the mirrored wall and tasted her throat while her hands worked my belt. The second we reached our floor I dragged her to our suite, shoved her onto the bed, and tore her dress open. Lace ripped. Her nipples were hard. I sucked them until she arched and swore in Russian. My mouth moved lower, between her thighs, and I licked her until her knees shook against my ears. She came fast, sharp, loud enough that someone down the hall knocked on the wall. I didn't stop. I flipped her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up, and sank into her from behind while she gripped the sheets and begged for more. Skin slapped skin. Sweat slid between us. I fucked her until she screamed my name and the headboard hammered the wall in time with my thrusts. Outside, Rome glowed gold under the streetlamps, but inside that room all that existed was heat, breath, and the wet sound of me claiming every inch of her.