Water Under The Bridge

Charlotte Sins hustles around the massage room, flipping on the soft lights and smoothing out the sheets, prepping for her next gig. In strolls Brad Sterling, towel slung low, and bam—they lock eyes like they've seen ghosts. Holy shit, it's her ex-husband. Divorced a solid few years back, Brad had zero clue she slings Nuru massages here; he'd have bolted to the next parlor otherwise. Awkward chit-chat kicks off, but they both shrug it off—hell, they were dumb kids when they tied the knot, too green to know better. Now? They've grown up, wise as owls. Why not play nice like adults? No beef left; that old grudge is ancient history, washed clean. So they ditch the clothes, both buck-naked and owning it, and hit the shower first. Soap suds everywhere as they lather up those slick bodies, gearing up for the main event. Rinsing off, they swap stories from the wild old days, and damn if those memories don't light a fire under their asses. Sparks fly like fireworks in the steam. Fast-forward to the Nuru action: bodies gliding on that gel-smeared mat, hands everywhere, and it's obvious they're eyeing each other like predators in heat, thinking, why not fuck for nostalgia's sake? They cave quick—dormant lust roars back to life. He pins her down, she arches into him, and they dive into hot, sweaty, intimate pounding, rekindling every filthy inch of what they once had.