Get To Work

Nacho drops the Mercedes in front of the hotel and Tori already knows the drill. She slips the doorman a smile, lets the bellboy take the bags, and waits until the coast clears. Then she heads back out to where Nacho leans against the car, arms crossed, tie loose. Paris traffic hums around them, but her attention narrows to the car door he opens for her like always. This time she climbs in the front seat instead. Her skirt rides higher on purpose. His hand finds her thigh before the door clicks shut. She parts her knees, reaches across, palms the hard line in his pants. The engine stays off. Her fingers work his zipper down, slow, deliberate. He’s already thick. She strokes him twice, then dips lower to cup his balls. Nacho’s middle finger traces the cotton strip of her panties until the fabric darkens. He hooks it aside. One thick fingertip circles her entrance, slick and easy, then pushes in. She exhales, forehead resting on the seat headrest, hips rocking forward. The finger withdraws, coated, and slips lower, pressing at her other entrance. She stays still, lets him ease the tip inside. Her own hand never stops moving on his cock. He works that finger deeper, knuckle by knuckle, until she’s breathing through her teeth. When he pulls free, he lifts it to her lips. She sucks it clean without hesitation. The taste of herself and the press of his thumb on her clit make her shudder. Outside, the city keeps moving, but here inside the car the only job is her and him and the slow, deliberate rhythm they’ve set.