Noah is still on his knees, face wrecked, glasses fogged solid, tears and my spit shining on his chin. His c**k is half-hard again already, twitching against his thigh like it never wants to leave my mouth.
I turn, brace both palms on the low counter, and arch my back hard. My skirt rides to my waist. The black lace thong is soaked through, clinging to my lips, the wet spot dark and obvious.
He makes a broken, animal sound behind me.
“Get to work,” I say, bored and cruel. “You’ve got about three minutes before your manager does his walkthrough.”
His hands are on me instantly, trembling so hard he can barely hook his fingers in the lace. He yanks the thong down to mid-thigh and just stares for one stunned second, like he’s never seen a p***y this close before.
Then he dives in.
No teasing,
