Avi Scott and Kylie Wilde

Avi’s fingers trace Kylie’s thigh, slow circles that edge higher. Kylie leans back, breath caught, her back hitting the leather couch. Glasses catch the light each time her head tilts. Two mouths meet—hungry, tongue-heavy—and the kiss turns messy fast. Avi’s hand slides under the waistband, finds slick heat, and two fingers push in without asking. Kylie moans, low and shaky. They break for air, spit-slick lips, then Avi shifts behind her, slick thumb circling tighter while her other hand works deeper. Kylie’s hips jerk forward, chasing it. Blonde hair tangles in Avi’s grip as the pace builds. When Avi pulls back to tease, Kylie reaches down, guiding those fingers harder, faster, until her thighs tremble and she comes with a strangled sound. They barely pause. Avi stands, turns Kylie over the armrest, and her wet fingers slip lower, finding a tighter heat. Kylie pushes back, biting her lip, taking it one knuckle at a time. Glasses fog. Avi leans in, teeth at her ear, and works deeper, twisting, thrusting until Kylie’s swearing through clenched teeth and shaking all over again. Short strokes, then long, steady ones, until Kylie’s panting open-mouthed against the leather, spent and still wanting more.