Not Wearing A Wire

Charlotte Cross sits naked in the tub when Ryan Driller strolls in and kills the faucet. Dad's in federal lockup, but she doesn't blink. She steps out onto the balcony, bare ass to the Strip, tits bouncing with every step. He tells her to cover up before someone spots the stepson banging a suspect. She laughs, says the lawyers already own half the feds and they have zero wire on her today. Back inside, she drops onto the couch without a stitch on. He throws his jacket over her chest; she flings it and spreads wide, daring him to give her what she wants. He warns her again, says she looks like a gold-digging trophy wife who married money a minute before the cuffs came out. She turns it back: she knows enough dirt to bury the whole family, him included. Unless he fucks her, she talks. Ryan drops his pants, shoves his cock between her lips to shut her up. Charlotte climbs on, feeds every thick inch into her pussy, then spins to ride him reverse, tits swinging. He stands, grabs her hips, pounds her doggy until she creams on his shaft. Flat on her back she mocks him for screwing his dad's wife, begs for his load, and he paints her tongue white.