She sits cross-legged on my couch, wine glass in hand, that devilish grin spreading across her lips. "Girl, you will not believe what Marcus did to me last night."

I shift uncomfortably, my dick already twitching against my thigh. She knows exactly what she's doing. Every Thursday night it's the same ritual—she comes over, gets tipsy, and tells me every filthy detail of her latest conquest. All while batting those innocent eyes like I'm just one of her girlfriends.

"So he picks me up, right? And he's got this look—you know the one. That 'I'm about to wreck you' stare." She takes a slow sip, letting the tension build. "We barely make it through the door before he's got me pinned against the wall. His hands are so big, spanning my entire waist. He lifts me like I weigh nothing."

My throat goes dry. I've imagined this exact scenario a hundred times—only it's my hands on her waist, my lips on her neck.

"He pulls my dress up and just stares at my pussy. Doesn't touch it. Just looks. You know how that feels? Being studied like that?" She uncrosses her legs, and I catch a glimpse of lace beneath her shorts. "Then he finally touches me. Two fingers, just sliding through my lips, spreading me open. I'm so wet I'm dripping down my thighs."

I can't help but adjust myself. She notices. She always notices. And she still pretends not to.

"He drops to his knees and buries his face between my legs. His tongue is so fucking thick—