Roxy’s a wildfire in fishnets—petite, inked up, and honestly, a menace in heels. Pink and silver hair spills right into her eyes while she grinds back, hips rolling in a way that’ll scramble your thoughts. That neon blush from the lamps? Makes everything look like a fever dream. Fishnets digging into her thighs, black gloves clamped around you like she owns the place.

She doesn’t even bother glancing over her shoulder. Just sinks lower, goes harder.

Mascara’s smeared, lipstick’s a memory. But damn, her rhythm? Flawless.

You’re stuck between letting out a curse or just gawking, totally useless.