“Sometimes I think you love that typewriter more than me,” she mused, bent over, caressing his shoulders.
“I have a deadline, baby. Fuckin’ editor wants a piece about these poppies and I got nothing.”
She swung around to straddle where he was sitting cross-legged. Scarlett-painted fingertips lifted her pale-yellow sundress. Her pussy, eye-level and glistening with arousal. She peered down to him and pinched her bottom lip.
With her free hand, she reached below, dipped a finger deep between her folds then extended to feed him her nectar. Her clit was swollen and crimson-red.
“Maybe… you’re not looking hard enough.”
