While she kept talking on the phone—smiling sweetly for her husband, showing him what a good, loving wife she was—her upper body perfectly framed in the camera, phone held high to hide everything below—I moved carefully.
I slid off the sofa, staying out of view, and knelt between her thighs. My hands went to her shorts, fingers hooking the waistband, tugging slow.
She glanced down, eyes wide—put a hand on mine, trying to stop me—but the resistance lasted half a second. She surrendered, lifting her hips just enough to help.
I pulled the shorts down her thick thighs, past her knees, off completely. Now her lower body was naked—pussy glistening, swollen, begging.
I spread her legs wider, careful not to shift the couch too much. She was soaked—juices dripping from my earlier fingering, mixing with fresh arousal from the risk. Talking to her husband while I touched her had made her flood.
