Five o'clock tea

That five o'clock tea started quiet. Cups on the table, steam curling upward, then Zafira leaned in and the talk slid from polite to personal. Blonde hair caught the light, her fingers brushed mine, and the pause that followed spoke louder than words. We slipped lace straps off shoulders, mouths met, and heat took over. Her tongue traced the line of my thigh, slow, deliberate, then deeper, until every sigh came sharp and quick. I answered with my own hunger, pulling her closer, tasting salt and silk. The table stayed untouched. We never finished the tea.