"They did say the count would be high today," Abby says, double checking the TV before she tears her clothes off without a second thought. It doesn't matter who, or why; the burning desperation has her cunt dripping wet and her mind in a haze.
"If you weren't a woman, I'd be telling you to go fuck yourself." Harness secure, Emma seizes her by the waist, pulls her close. Each touch, each kiss, makes her lips tingle and her body ache. She teases Abby's nipples with her thumbs, smiles at the whimpers, and reminds herself this is a one time only deal. After all, she's the asshole who had Emma shafted to the Arctic and nearly killed.
Abby rocks her hips back and forth once she's shoved down onto the bed. Reduced to a raging mass of hormones, she writhes on the bed, desperate for pleasure, friction; the feel of something — anything — between her legs and in her mouth, even if it's her.
The seconds between Emma standing and riding her into the mattress take too long, and as she gives Abby what she needs, all she wants is to feel some pleasure too.
Suddenly it stops. "Dawson, please."
Emma reaches over and lifts the baggie off the bedside table and rolls her eyes. Count my ass. She scoops up what remains with a long nail and snorts it without hesitation. The effect is instantaneous. "Get on the bed. Face up. You fuck me, then I might just fuck you."