When he looked down, the sight of her—untouched, composed, her hands moving with that relentless rhythm—sent a pulse of heat straight to his core.
Her expression didn't shift, her strokes unwavering, but she adjusted her pace without a word, as if sensing his rising need.
Her fingers twisted slightly on the upstroke, the latex rolling against his sensitive tip, sending sparks up his spine.
The slick sounds grew louder, filling the small room, mingling with the faint musk of arousal and the spiced oil's heady scent.
Lor's thighs spread wider, his toes curling inside his boots as his hips began to move in time with her strokes. His breath came in ragged bursts, his fingers digging into the floorboards.
"Faster," he rasped, the word half plea, half command.
She complied instantly—not out of submission, but as if she'd already decided it was time.
