I was just about to answer when I felt her feet on my stiff cock. I looked into her smiling face. ‘Actually, I'm the one asking the questions here,’ I joked. ‘Oh yes, private detective Sven Ritter,’ Anja laughed at me. I looked up in surprise. ‘That's what it says on the nameplate of your obviously broken doorbell.’ With that sentence, Anja approached me. I felt a sense of trust that I hadn't felt in a long time. Anja looked at me with an even more intense gaze and sat down on my lap. My stiff cock found its way into Anja's well-formed body.


Anja slowly began to move her body up and down. My cock felt her hot, wet tightness. ‘So we have the same fetish,’ I asked her as we surrendered to our lust. Her skin was smooth, hotter than the water, pressing tightly against my chest. Her breath brushed my ear—a sharp, choppy sound that wasn't pain. I recognised it with full force, instinctively and undeniably. This wasn't just attraction; it was the *appetite* she had named. The devotion. The passion. Her thighs closed around my hips, pulling me deeper, her movements deliberate, probing, demanding.
Her fingers dug into my shoulders, blunt nails scratching my skin. A soft moan escaped her, swallowed by the humid air. Her green eyes, inches from mine, held mine captive. In the heat, the friction, the aroused closeness of flesh and flesh. ‘Yes,’ she breathed, the word a puff of steam on my lips. No question. A confirmation. Her hips arched, rubbed, took it all in. The boundaries weren't just soft; they were gone. Used up. The world narrowed to her smooth heat, the pounding of my blood, the shared, unspoken hunger pulsing in the steamy darkness between us.