A Fantasy - Hot Hook Up
Row H, Seat 13
I knew she was trouble the moment she slid into the seat beside me—tight jeans, leather jacket, and that cascading fire of red hair catching flickers of screen light like it had secrets to whisper.
She said nothing. Didn’t have to. The slow, deliberate crossing of her legs… the ghost of a smirk as her thigh brushed mine… told me she wasn’t here for the movie.
The trailers were still rolling when I felt her hand—cool fingers grazing my thigh, casual at first… then deliberate. I turned, catching her eye.
She didn’t blink.
Didn’t smile.
She just leaned in and whispered, “Don’t make a sound.”
Fuck.
I was rock hard before the opening credits even started.
Her fingers worked with slow, sinful precision, unzipping me with all the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing. She freed me—barely concealed by the theatre’s shadows—and slid her hand around me, soft but firm, stroking with maddening control.
I clenched my jaw, every nerve on fire as her thumb teased the tip, spreading that first bead of slickness like she owned it.
Then she shifted. Turned slightly. Her head dipped low—just enough that her breath, warm and wicked, danced across my skin. Her hair spilled across my lap like fire in the dark.
And then she took me.
Warm. Wet. Merciless.
Sinking down until her lips met her fist and I was buried in the mouth of a goddess with no shame and zero regard for anyone in the rows behind us.
I gripped the armrest hard enough to leave dents. Her tongue swirled with devastating rhythm—slow… then fast… then maddeningly slow again, until I was shaking, staring at the screen without seeing a damn thing.
“Almost,” she murmured, looking up, lips slick and wicked.
She pulled back just before I lost control… tucked me away like a filthy little secret, and leaned in one last time.
“You’ll finish,” she whispered, biting my earlobe, “but not here… I want to taste every drop when I’m riding your face later.”
Then she stood, walked up the aisle without a glance back, hips swaying like a challenge.
And I just sat there—breathless, hard, and completely ruined in Row H, Seat 13.
She said nothing. Didn’t have to. The slow, deliberate crossing of her legs… the ghost of a smirk as her thigh brushed mine… told me she wasn’t here for the movie.
The trailers were still rolling when I felt her hand—cool fingers grazing my thigh, casual at first… then deliberate. I turned, catching her eye.
She didn’t blink.
Didn’t smile.
She just leaned in and whispered, “Don’t make a sound.”
Fuck.
I was rock hard before the opening credits even started.
Her fingers worked with slow, sinful precision, unzipping me with all the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing. She freed me—barely concealed by the theatre’s shadows—and slid her hand around me, soft but firm, stroking with maddening control.
I clenched my jaw, every nerve on fire as her thumb teased the tip, spreading that first bead of slickness like she owned it.
Then she shifted. Turned slightly. Her head dipped low—just enough that her breath, warm and wicked, danced across my skin. Her hair spilled across my lap like fire in the dark.
And then she took me.
Warm. Wet. Merciless.
Sinking down until her lips met her fist and I was buried in the mouth of a goddess with no shame and zero regard for anyone in the rows behind us.
I gripped the armrest hard enough to leave dents. Her tongue swirled with devastating rhythm—slow… then fast… then maddeningly slow again, until I was shaking, staring at the screen without seeing a damn thing.
“Almost,” she murmured, looking up, lips slick and wicked.
She pulled back just before I lost control… tucked me away like a filthy little secret, and leaned in one last time.
“You’ll finish,” she whispered, biting my earlobe, “but not here… I want to taste every drop when I’m riding your face later.”
Then she stood, walked up the aisle without a glance back, hips swaying like a challenge.
And I just sat there—breathless, hard, and completely ruined in Row H, Seat 13.
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