Fisting, like in the movies

We took Blue Angel to the movies. The night felt light until the plot hit its slow burn—slow breath, wet friction, pulses rising in the dark. Hands disappeared beneath clothing while nobody watched. Fingers moved inside her, three, then four, spreading her open until her cunt tightened around my wrist and the armrest creaked. She rocked down harder and gave it back, pushing into me with that same slick grip until my thighs trembled. The scent of us hung between the seats, thick and sweet. By the time the credits rolled we were still trembling, halfway to ruined, and the story had slipped away completely.