Her Ass is Her Temple

Ariel keeps that fine ass to herself. It's her private altar, and most men never get past the velvet ropes. Yura earned the privilege. She turns, spine curved like an invitation, and gives him access to the tight little passage she guards so closely. He works it with steady, deliberate strokes—slow at first, then deeper, until the room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin. She takes every inch, breathing hard, ass flexing around him. When he’s had enough of her back door, he pulls out, strokes once, twice, and paints her face with thick, hot streaks that drip down her chin. She smiles through the mess, tongue flicking at the corner of her mouth like she’s tasting a secret she might decide to keep.