Getting Laid To Rest

Monika slips into the quiet bedroom, the funeral's muffled hymns fading behind her. Jordan's already there, loosening his tie, eyes sharp like a predator spotting easy prey. They exchange polite nods—'Sorry for your loss,' she murmurs, voice dripping false sympathy. But the masks crack fast. 'Boss was a prick anyway,' Jordan sneers, stepping closer. Monika laughs, low and bitter. 'Couldn't agree more. Let's make this wake worth something.' Their hands find each other, urgent, clothes shedding like old skin. She pushes him onto the bed, straddling his hips, grinding down as his fingers dig into her thighs. The door creaks—Charlie bursts in, fumbling for his jacket and phone on the chair. 'Shit, wrong room,' he mutters, eyes widening at the tangle of limbs. They freeze, Monika's skirt hiked up, Jordan's shirt half-unbuttoned, but Charlie bolts without a word. Adrenaline surges. 'Close one,' Jordan growls, flipping her beneath him, thrusting hard into her slick heat. She gasps, nails raking his back. The door swings again—Charlie back for his forgotten keys, pausing mid-step. This time, they don't stop; Monika bites her lip to stifle a moan as Jordan pounds deeper, the risk fueling the fire. Charlie stammers an apology and flees. Now, nothing holds them. Uninterrupted, they fuck like animals—her legs wrapped tight around him, bodies slick with sweat, chasing release in raw, cynical bliss.