Ride it, baby!

Angel’s boots hit the floor first. The rest of her riding clothes peel off slow, each piece sliding from her skin until she stands bare in the stall. Anthony watches, hands still tack-stained, chest tight under his shirt. She closes the space between them with her hips, and the moment she reaches for his belt he’s hers. She sinks down, taking him in her mouth right there against the hay bales. No teasing. Just warm, wet strokes that pull a low sound from his throat. Her tongue works every inch, lips dragging tight on the way up, then sliding down again until her nose brushes his stomach. When he lifts her onto the saddle stand, she spreads for him without a word. He pushes in deep, steady, riding her with the same smooth rhythm he uses on the track. Her thighs grip his waist. He drives harder, hands braced on the leather behind her. She meets every thrust, back arching, breath sharp and quick. The stall fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, the creak of the stand, the soft slap of her ass against his hips. He keeps the pace until she’s gasping, until he spills inside her with a last, grinding push. Afterward, the barn is quiet again, and Angel smiles like she just won the race.