Midnight In Mistakes

The day’s dead, but she isn’t. Megan glides into your room still in that dress, dark hair messy from the night, tits fighting the neckline, stockings gleaming under the bedside light. She locks the door, kicks off one heel, and smirks like she owns the place—because she does. You know you’re supposed to stay professional, but she’s already on the bed, knees spread, fingers slipping under the hem and tugging lace aside. She rubs slow, wet circles, biting her lip, watching you grow hard. Piercings glint as she frees those heavy tits, rolling the stiff nipples between thumb and finger, soft moans spilling out. You cross the room, grip her thighs, spread her wider. She laughs—cocky, filthy—and pulls you in, mouth hot around you. She sucks like she means it, tongue teasing, drool running down her chin while she looks up, proud of the mess she’s making. You thrust deeper; she takes it, throat tight, mascara starting to streak. She lies back, stockings still clipped to garters, dress bunched at her waist. You slide in raw. She’s soaked, gripping, meeting every stroke, tits bouncing, piercings catching the light. Every time you bottom out she gasps, then begs for more. Her legs clamp around you, heels digging in. You drive harder until the room fills with the wet slap of skin. She squeezes, comes shaking, and drags you over the edge with her. You pulse deep, flooding her, watching it leak when you finally pull out. Midnight mistakes, same as last time. Neither of you plans to stop making them.