The Australian sun beat down as Nikita Denise pushed her cart through the quiet market. Her husky Czech accent was a soft murmur as she examined fruit. A deep, familiar voice cut through the air.

"Still know how to pick the ripe ones, Nikita?"

She turned. Peter North. Time had etched his face, but those dark eyes still held that hungry spark. Her own brown eyes widened, a flush creeping up her tattooed neck. "Peter. My God."

They fell into easy, charged conversation, the memory of *Anal Addicts 7* hanging thick between them. "My place is close," she finally rasped, the invitation clear.

Inside her bungalow, the pretense dropped. He cupped her face, his thumb tracing her lip. "That accent still drives me fucking wild," he growled.

She went to her knees, her hands fumbling with his belt. "I remember what drives *you*," she purred, pulling out his already-thickening cock. She took him deep, her throat working around his head, the wet, gagging sounds filling the room. She slurped and deep-throated with a veteran's skill, her eyes locked on his, remembering the feel of his shaft stretching her.

He pulled her up, his hands rough on her clothes. "I need that legendary ass," he breathed, biting her neck. He stripped her, worshiping her mature body—her tits, her ink, the curve of her spine. He pushed her over the couch, spreading her cheeks. His tongue dove into her puckered hole, licking and probing, making her cry out in Czech.

"Fuck me, Peter.