Sexercise

Alexa’s built her morning grind into pure ritual—tightens the glutes, clears the head, keeps that dancer’s frame dialed in just right. Today though she lets him crash the set. Same pulse, different workout. He bends her over the kitchen counter and pushes in slow, each thrust pairing with her breath. She grips the edge, eyes half-shut, muttering smart-ass encouragements every time his hips slap her ass. Sweat beads quicker than yoga ever managed, but they don’t break rhythm; she keeps counting reps in gasps and curses, both chasing that shared finish like they’re racing the clock.