Third set, twenty-five, his quads burning, his breaths heavy, his arousal sharp. “Yeah, well,Small Breasted ” she said, her voice gruff in his throat, “don’t get too comfortable.” But her hands stayed, her fingers flexing against his muscles, and the air hummed with the unspoken pull drawing them back together.

Ken stood there, still flexing her biceps in the mirror, the torn pantyhose clinging to his legs like a battle-worn flag. “But how? You got any bright ideas, or are we just gonna keep screwing until it wears off?”

She shot to her feet, her movements jerky in his body, and grabbed his arm–her arm–pulling him upright. “Holy shit,” he breathed, his voice awed in her throat, watching the definition sharpen with each curl.