After hours

The after-hours lights stay low. Carla Cox and White Angel stretch the night out on the couch, bodies bare, lips already brushing. White Angel lies back, legs wide, and Carla’s fingers slide straight inside. Two digits, three, working the tight heat until every stroke makes a wet, heavy sound. Juice runs down Carla’s wrist and soaks the cushion beneath them. She keeps the pace steady, curling deep, stretching, pushing White Angel open until her thighs tremble and fresh slick spills free. Short gasps, softer moans, then louder, filling the empty room.