His thumb speeds up. His fingers curl and stroke that perfect spot over and over. I’m actively nodding along with Sophia’s story, murmuring “That sounds amazing,” while my hips rock the tiniest bit under the table, chasing his hand like I’m starving for it.
The orgasm crashes over me without warning. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, forcing my face to stay pleasant while waves of pleasure rip through me. My p***y spasms around his fingers, flooding them with fresh wetness that trickles down my thighs. I can feel it dripping onto the chair. The risk of someone noticing makes it even stronger—I have to keep smiling, keep talking, keep pretending I’m not coming undone right in front of them.
He doesn’t stop. He milks every last pulse, drawing it out until I’m trembling and
