Playboy Shootout - Episode 7

Now every model stands alone. Each photographer hunts her own. The slow unzip. The linen dress slipping off a shoulder. She steps closer, nipples tight, skin flushed. Hands move without asking. A thumb strokes the curve beneath her breast. A breath hitches. His other palm slides down her belly, finds slick heat between parted thighs. Two fingers sink in, pull back, push deeper. She rocks forward, takes them to the knuckle, mouth open, eyes half-closed. The camera clicks. She arches, wetter, clenching around the intrusion. Another frame. He twists his wrist, finds the place that makes her knees give. She grabs his wrist, not to stop him but to keep him there, riding each thrust of his fingers until the sound turns obscene and her thighs tremble. Sweat beads at her throat. He leans in, tongue tracing the pulse point, tasting salt and want. She comes with a short, broken cry, hips jerking, slick coating his hand. He keeps the pressure steady until the last pulse fades. When he pulls out, his fingers glisten. The next shot catches the shine on his skin and the raw, dazed look in her eyes.