She can’t help herself

I slide off the dark-haired guy's lap and feel the shift in the room's energy as I make my way over to the muscular one. He's sprawled on the sectional, watching me approach with that lazy, confident grin. Joe is slumped on the other end, head lolled back, snoring softly, his drink still clutched in his slack hand.

I plant my knees on either side of the muscular guy's thighs, settling onto his lap. The latex squeaks against his jeans as I adjust my weight, and his hands find my hips immediately, fingers pressing into the exposed skin above the straps.

"Looks like he's out cold," I murmur, tilting my head toward Joe's sleeping form. My voice is low, a little rough from the liquor and the dancing. "That's a shame. He was supposed to be watching."

I lean forward, letting my chest press against his, the slick material of the slingshot grazing his shirt. His hands slide lower, palms cupping my ass, the latex taut under his fingers. I let out a soft, breathy exhale, my lips near his ear.