And he resumed his thrusts.
Slow at first. Deep rolling movements that let her feel every ridge and vein dragging along her inner walls
The broad crown pressed flush against her deepest wall on every downstroke, grinding in slow circles before he withdrew—her entrance clinging to the retreating head, reluctant, a thick strand of her juice stretching between them before it snapped.
Then the rhythm built. Heavier. More certain. Each thrust sinking a fraction deeper than the last, her body opening to accommodate him in increments, her pussy lips dragging outward on every pull—flushing white at the edges, then deep crimson—the evidence of their joining thickening into a glossy ring at his base that grew messier with every stroke.
"Ahhhh—" She hugged him so tight.
