‘Mmm, that’s good.’ Torrie’s hands slowly work their way down your chest and slide under your shirt. She pulls your shirt up and off of you in...one swift motion. She’s obviously done that before. She pushes you over and you lay on one of the couches that line the edge of the limo. She’s still straddling you, and you curse the inventor of clothes. She pours some champagne on your chest and Trish licks it off of you. She licks a path upwards from where the champagne was to your mouth, inserting. “Liam,” he replied, taking it. His grasp was strong and his hands work-worn. Based on his attire, I would’ve guessed that he was a construction worker of sorts, the type that spent the day coated in hot sweat, lifting work materials and was probably strong enough to pin anyone he wanted to a bed and fuck their brains out. Up to this point, I hadn’t really considered the ‘what if he wasn’t queer’ question yet, but based on his apparent interest, I wasn’t going to question what I hoped was. More

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