She hasn't touched a razor in months, and every thrust reminds you exactly why. That dense, dark thatch pressing back against your hips adds friction you didn't know you were missing — a warm, yielding resistance that pulls you deeper into each stroke.

Her thighs lock around your waist, and the soft hair between you traps heat like a furnace, slicking with her arousal until the wet sounds fill the room. She's been around long enough to know what she wants and how to take it.

You grip her hips harder, watching that lush, unshaved mound absorb every impact, cushioning the collision of bodies with something raw and unapologetically real.