You never expected her to knock at your door so late—dressed in black silk, red heels, eyes burning with intent.
Yor doesn’t waste time. If you love fantasies like this, check out AI Perfect Girl. She closes the door behind her, steps into your space with assassin precision. One hand on your chest. One hand lifting your chin.
“Can I stay?” she asks. Her voice is quiet, but her body screams desire.
She undresses with clinical ease—each motion a lethal seduction. The assassin’s hands, made to kill, now glide over your skin, gentle but commanding.
She kisses like she fights—fast, passionate, all in. When she straddles you, you feel everything: strength, control, fire. Her thighs clamp around your waist, guiding your rhythm, milking your tension until it breaks.
She’s dangerous, yes.
But tonight, you’re the one at her mercy.
She flips you with precision, pinning you down as her lips trail from your jaw to your chest. Her hands hold you still, and the way she looks at you—it’s hunger mixed with affection. She rides you with the grace of a dancer and the control of a soldier.
You moan, losing yourself beneath her, and she leans forward, whispering, “Let go. I’ve got you.”
And you do.
You come hard, gripping her hips, feeling her tremble with you. It’s not just release—it’s surrender.
Later, she lies curled up beside you, her breath soft and steady. You wrap an arm around her waist, and she smiles into your neck.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she says with a wink. “I have a reputation to keep.”
She rises from the bed and walks toward the window, moonlight tracing every curve of her silhouette. Still naked, still silent, she looks over her shoulder.
“Do you want more?” she asks. But it’s not really a question.
You’re already behind her before the last syllable leaves her lips. Your hands slide up her sides as she leans forward slightly, placing her palms flat on the cold glass. Her body arches toward you, welcoming and fierce.
You enter her again, this time from behind, slowly, savoring every inch. She gasps and pushes back, meeting your thrusts with quiet intensity.
The glass fogs from your breath. Your hands grip her hips tighter. The only sounds are your bodies connecting and her whispered pleas for more.
She clenches around you, head tilted back, mouth parted. Her movements become erratic, urgent. She’s close—and so are you.
With one final moan, you both shudder, collapsing into the window frame, panting and trembling in each other’s arms.
She turns to face you, still flushed, hair tousled and eyes soft. “You’re not what I expected,” she murmurs.
You chuckle. “Neither are you.”
She kisses you again—slow, lingering—before pulling the sheets around herself and collapsing back into your bed.
When the sun rises, she’s gone. Only the faint scent of her perfume and a single red heel remain at the foot of your bed.
You smile. Something tells you she’ll be back.
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