Caught mid-moan on the couch with a half-empty wineglass in hand—Daisy’s lace thong dangling off one thigh before she even realizes you’re still in the room. She doesn’t stop pretending to adjust herself when her fingers slip lower, then higher again as if testing how wet she is. The second your dick brushes against her inner thigh, she freezes—just for a heartbeat—but then those full lips part into a smirk that says ‘You’ve been watching this whole time.’ No foreplay needed; legs spread wider than they should be over the armrest of that damn couch while you pin her down by the hips and slam up into her so hard the screen door rattles.
