your hands look good on my ass.

Your palms press flat against warm skin, fingers spreading wide like you own every inch beneath them. The weight of her shifts into your grip, soft and yielding, shaped perfectly for exactly this.

You feel the slight give when you squeeze, the way she adjusts her stance just enough to push back harder. No words needed. Her body already knows what your hands are asking.

This is the part nobody warns you about — how right it feels, how natural, like your hands were specifically built for this particular curve, this specific warmth.