Hungry

She lingers at the door every afternoon, her body already wet beneath the black lace lingerie. The metal bite of keys hitting the lock hits her like a promise. He steps inside and she is on him, lips parted, hips pushing forward, the wet spot on her panties darkening by the second. She keeps the blonde strands pulled back, letting the contrast of her darker companion's brown waves tumble over her shoulder as she drops to her knees. Fingers fumble at his belt. She takes him deep, cheeks hollowing, spit trailing down her chin onto the swell of her breasts. When he lifts her, pins her against the wall, and drives into the slick heat she's been saving for him, she moans loud enough to echo down the hall. He pulls out at the end, strokes twice, and paints her flushed face in thick ropes. She stays on her knees, licking the corner of her mouth clean, eyes half-lidded, satisfied at last.