Whisper

Tess Lyndon dreams in whispers she would never say out loud. Angel Piaff does the same. When the words finally meet, their mouths find each other first. A soft kiss deepens, another follows, hungrier. Fingers trace the edge of lace until fabric slides away. Tess’s tongue circles Angel’s nipple, slow then quicker, drawing a low moan. Angel answers with her hand between Tess’s thighs, stroking, parting, slipping inside. Their hips rock together on the sheets. Blonde hair tangles with darker strands. Bodies press tight, slick heat meeting every thrust. When the first climax breaks, Angel’s mouth stays on Tess’s, swallowing the cry. The second follows, stronger, as fingers curl and hold. They move until the whispers are gone and only breath and skin remain.