“Hold the bottom,” he said, suddenly right behind me. His voice was low, close enough that I felt his breath on the back of my neck. “Good depth. But open those hips more. Let me fix it.”

His hands landed on my hips—big, hot palms spreading wide. Fingers dug in just enough to guide me. He pulled my hips back gently, adjusted my stance, and his chest brushed my shoulder blade. The heat of him poured through my clothes. I could smell him—clean sweat, something woodsy, pure man. My core clenched hard. A fresh rush of wetness soaked my folds, making the fabric cling.

“Like this,” he murmured, so quiet...