Backstage of Screw Me!

Aletta catches her breath against a stack of timber, lunch forgotten. Her tool belt hangs low on her hips, breasts heavy inside the half-buttoned shirt. She spots George across the scaffolding, tight jeans riding low, and hooks one finger through his belt loop. “Screw me,” she says. He drops his wrench. Her shirt peels open; his mouth finds a nipple. She palms her own breast while he works his hand between her legs, rough fingers sliding beneath denim. The steel beam at her back is cold. She spreads wider, grinding against his knuckles until the pulse between her thighs turns slick and loud. His breath is hot on her throat. The site rings with the wet sound of skin meeting skin, nothing staged, nothing hidden. Her fingers tangle in his hair; his hips snap forward, steady, raw. Midday sun throws hard shadows across her curves, but nothing stops the slow, greedy rhythm building between them.