Home alone

She stretches across the pool table like it was built for her, blue felt cool against warm skin. Her breasts press flat when she leans in, then spill free when she straightens, soft weight swinging with every move. She ignores the cue ball. One hand slips between her thighs, fingers already slick, and she laughs under her breath, low and dirty, because the only game she cares about starts when she spreads wider and finds the exact pressure she needs. Her nipples tighten under the thin top. She pinches one, rolls it, feels the shock run straight down to where her fingers move faster now. The empty room stays quiet. Just the sound of her breathing, sharp little inhales when she hits the sweet spot again and again. She climbs onto the table, knees braced on the rail, hips rocking. Her other hand joins the first, two fingers sliding inside, thumb working her clit in tight circles. She bites her lip, then lets the moan out, raw, hungry. The table creaks under her. She doesn't care. Eyes half-closed, mouth open, she chases the heat building between her legs until her thighs shake and she comes hard, back arched, voice breaking on a single word that sounds like relief.