"How come you're not dancing anymore?" I ask as we settle on the island stools—in bathrobes—after we've trashed my tub. Malia hasn't used the floor to practice her routines.
It turns out Malia loves the jet so much, she now wants one in her own home someday. I made her cum multiple times with my mouth, my fingers, and my cock until her legs turned to jelly and I had to carry her out of there, put her in a fluffy robe that she swears it's hers from now on—I don't have any intention of telling her no. It's hers if she wants it.
And now we're back in the kitchen. Because sex makes us hungry after. Her eyes look tired, but she has a satisfied smile on her face and she's eating vanilla ice cream while I'm sipping on espresso, watching her lick her spoon. I have to have that on me.
She hums, chewing on her bottom lip as she thinks for a second. "I don't think I'm joining the competition anymore."
"Why not? I thought you needed it."
