Divorcee needs to get fucked

Tammy used to own the room with charcoal on her hands and every eye on her curves. Then the divorce hit and the studio went silent. She stopped showing up. Stopped getting laid. Tonight she calls Melissa, says she wants to sketch again. Melissa shows up, pencil behind her ear, and it takes five minutes before the truth slips out: Tammy hasn’t come since the papers were signed. Melissa sets her sketchbook down, steps in close, and says she’s fixing that tonight. Clothes hit the floor fast. Melissa drops to her knees, spreads Tammy open, and eats her like she’s starving—slow, wet, filthy, not stopping until Tammy’s thighs shake and her voice breaks. Tammy barely catches her breath before she flips the script, tongue working Melissa until the brunette’s hips jerk and she growls Tammy’s name. Then they’re grinding, slick and desperate, clits dragging hard until both of them are panting. Melissa straps up, pushes Tammy onto her back, and fucks her deep—long, steady strokes that turn ragged when Tammy claws at her shoulders and comes again, loud and shaking.