Erica's Glamour

Erica Fontes never needs words. She strips bare, skin silk-smooth and begging for contact. Then she slides onto the couch, parts her thighs, and starts working two fingers over her clit in slow circles. Every stroke pulls a soft sound from her throat. Her other hand drifts up to pinch a nipple, twisting until the tip stands tight. She dips lower, pushes two fingers inside, and pumps them deep. Wetness coats her knuckles. She pulls them free, spreads the shine over her folds, then presses back in, harder, faster, until her hips lift off the leather and her breath turns ragged.