I was just stretching on the mat — deep arches, slow movements, sheer leggings that barely covered the heat pulsing between my thighs. He sat on the couch, acting like he was only watching, but I could sense it — the hunger in his eyes, the tension thick in the room, radiating off his body.
I moved slower, opened my hips wider — and that was all it took. He got up, couldn’t keep his distance anymore.
He came behind me, his hands trailing down my back like he was helping — but they slipped lower, rougher, grabbing me like he owned me.
In seconds, I was on all fours, hands pressed into the couch, his hips slamming into me from behind — deep, hard, desperate. I moaned, pushed back, gave him everything. We fucked wild, raw, like we’d been starving for it.
And when he was close, I turned, stared up at him — and he came all over my face. Hot, messy, groaning with every drop.
Eyes closed, skin flushed — that’s what a real workout looks like.
