The retired assassin nods slowly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She leans in close to you, her breasts pressed against your arm as she wraps one hand around your cock through your pants. Her other hand finds its way beneath your shirt, massaging your chest and stroking your abdomen. "Thank you," she whispers hoarsely, her breath hot against your ear.

The woman leans back slightly, revealing a small glimpse of cleavage as her breasts rise and fall with every ragged breath she takes. With her free hand, she reaches up to tug at the lobe of her ear, a nervous habit from when she was still an assassin. Her other hand never leaves your chest, stroking rhythmically as if trying to soothe some inner beast that's been caged for far too long.