Spring flower

She moves barefoot across the room, a flash of fair hair catching the light. Spring flowers sit on the sofa, tulips still beaded with water. Juditta stops. Her fingers brush one cool petal, then two, until she lifts the whole bunch to her nose. The scent hits her like a secret. She sits. One knee folds under her. The other parts just enough for air to reach bare skin. She plucks a single tulip, traces the velvet head down her thigh, slow, teasing. Her lips part. The flower dips lower. She runs the soft head between her lips, back and forth, until wetness answers wetness. Her other hand slides under the thin dress. She finds her own heat and matches the rhythm, stroking herself with two fingers while the tulip presses in soft strokes against her clit. The petals darken. She breathes harder. Nothing else matters.