Samba lesson

Cipriana dreamed about samba the way other girls dreamed about rock stars—something hot, hungry, impossible to fake. Lucky for her, the man in the house carried the rhythm in his bones. One song in and their bodies were already glued together, every sway melting into a slow grind. Clothes hit the floor without ceremony. She dropped to her knees, red hair tumbling, mouth open and eager around him. His fingers threaded through the strands, guiding her, then pulling her up so they could finish standing. He took her against the wall, deep and steady, her legs locked around his hips. When he was close, she sank again, lips sealed tight until he spilled across her flushed face, streaks of white bright against freckled skin.