I could barely walk.
Every step back to my seat was hell. My thighs were shaking, my knees still jelly, and my hole was leaking his c*m with every movement. I felt it slide down my inner thigh, warm and wet, sticking to my skin. There was no way to hide it—not really. My briefs were soaked. My slacks were clinging to my legs. The scent of him—musky, raw, male—still clung to me like it was burned into my skin.
I didn’t dare look around.
I moved fast. Quiet. Pretending to stretch, like I’d just taken a casual walk. As if I wasn’t freshly f****d, ruined, and full.
I collapsed into my seat, face burning, lungs tight.
I was shaking.
Not just from the aftershocks of the orgasm. God, I could still feel it echoing in my spine, but from the sheer weight of it all. The shame. The thrill. The s
