Your Wife's Calling...

Payton Preslee flashes a wicked grin as she ushers in her latest mark, Seth Gamble. Turns out, Seth's knee-deep in a house remodel with his ball-and-chain wife, who's nitpicking every damn nail and paint swatch till he's ready to snap. He fed her a line about hitting the pavement for a stroll, but nah—this stud's here for my expert hands to melt away the madness. I catch that spark in his eye, and hell yeah, nothing gets my pulse racing like a guy with a ring on his finger. 'Your little white lie stays buried with me, handsome,' I purr, already plotting how to make this unforgettable. We strip down quick—clothes hit the floor like yesterday's news. I slather on that slick Nuru gel, my curves sliding over his tense muscles in a full-body tease that has him groaning low. Halfway through, his phone buzzes like a damn alarm. It's wifey, yapping about curtain rods or some bullshit remodel crap. Seth chats her up, voice steady as a rock, then clicks off with a sheepish grin. 'Sorry about that,' he mutters. I ramp it up, leaning in close, my breath hot on his ear. 'Let me fix that stress for real—how about I ride you till you forget her name?' He pauses, eyes flicking to the door, but I seal the deal with a sultry wink and a grind that leaves no room for doubt. Clothes? Who needs 'em. I straddle him hard, our bodies locking in that slippery, pounding rhythm, sweat and gel mixing into pure fire. Right when things hit fever pitch—bam—phone rings again. Wifey's back at it. Seth grabs it, face straight as poker, while I don't miss a beat, clenching around him with a devilish smirk. He mumbles through the call, voice hitching just enough to thrill me, then finally hangs up. Game on—we dive back in, harder, faster, chasing that explosive finish like pros owning the night.