She kicked the door shut with her heel, dropped her bag, and peeled out of her scrubs on the way to the couch. No words. No questions.

Her black bra stayed on. Sweat clung to her chest. Her hair was loose, wild from twelve hours under a cap. She looked over her shoulder once and said, “Sit.”

He sat.

She climbed into his lap, straddling him in reverse. No underwear. Just bare thighs settling against denim, heat soaking through the fabric. She reached back, pulled his cock out, and spit.

Then she slid him between her breasts.

Her grip was tight. Flesh soft, warm, wet with spit. She moved slow, pressing him up through her cleavage, dragging every inch of him against her chest. His breath caught. Her rhythm never changed.

She used her body like it owed her something.

His cock throbbed, slick now, the head peeking out each time she squeezed. She let him sit in it. Wanting. Twitching. Barely breathing.

Then she let go.

She grabbed him, lifted her hips, and lowered herself onto him in one smooth drop. He disappeared inside her, deep, wet, all the way.

She rode him hard.

Her ass slapped his thighs, skin on skin, her spine flexing as she pushed back faster. She wasn’t fucking for connection. She was fucking to feel. Her breath stayed steady, but her grip on his knees tightened with every thrust.

He came first.

She didn’t stop.

She kept moving, slow now, grinding him empty, milking the last of him until she felt it leak out around him.

Only then did she lean forward, elbows on her knees, catching her breath.

She turned her head just enough to look back.

“Now I feel better.”

She stayed seated, still full, still pulsing.

And he knew she wasn’t finished.