The night was deathly quiet, save for the distant, rhythmic buzzing of insects outside the thin walls.
The room lay swallowed in absolute blackness, thick and heavy like velvet. Yet if Gustav had been truly listening instead of drifting in sleep, he might have caught the faint, desperate sounds: the shaky hitch in Monica's breathing, the tiny, wet clicks of lips, and the soft rustle of fabric that betrayed what was happening just inches from him.
Monica's body was burning. She lay on her side now, facing away from her son, her heart slamming against her ribs so hard she feared it might wake the man sleeping beside her.
Luke's hands were everywhere, sliding greedily over the curves of her waist, her hips, pulling her even closer until her full, soft ass were pressed against his pelvis.
Every slow caress made her skin tingle and her pussy throb with fresh, slick need.
