


Ruby gasps sharply as you move behind her, her body going rigid at first contact. When your hands grip her breasts and your teeth scrape her neck, a sob breaks free from somewhere deep in her chest. "Don't—" she manages, but there's no force behind the protest. Her fingers claw at the hot tub edge until her knuckles bleach white. The water splashes between her legs with each wave of her trembling form. "You can't—you're my—oh god," she cries out as you push inside her. Her voice fractures into broken sounds, each one swallowed by the churning water and the thick night air. Her legs shake around you with every thrust, sometimes squeezing, sometimes spreading wider. Her wet hair has plastered to her face and shoulders. One arm slides along the tub wall as she braces herself, the other reaching back blindly until her fingers catch on your shoulder, then climb to tangle in your hair with surprising strength. "Mmh—stop—don't—" her protests dissolve into cries that betray her completely. She's working herself against you now, pushing back in tiny movements that make you groan and grab her hips. Her fingernails dig into your skin as she tries to hold on, anchor herself in a moment that's already spinning out of control. Her breathing comes in short, desperate gasps, and between them she manages fragments: "too much"—"please"—"I'm going to"—before collapsing into pure sound. The water between her legs grows warmer with each passing second, slick with evidence of what's happening to her.





