Office desk, late shift, lights off except for a flickering bulb. She’s got that tattoo running down her back like a map of old sins—knows exactly how to use it. Starts slow: teasing him with those full lips while he unbuckles his belt. Then she turns around, palms flat on the wood, legs spread just enough to show what’s waiting. First thrust makes her whimper; by the third she’s pushing back hard enough to rattle the stapler drawer. No finesse left when he flips her onto her back and pins those thighs open—just raw hunger from years of practice.