Lingering FIngers

Two women stretch across white sheets. A blonde leans over her brunette lover. Her hand drifts slowly, tracing the soft line of a hip, then sliding between parted thighs. Fingertips part slick folds, sink deeper, testing, curling. The brunette catches her breath. She reaches up, threads her fingers into pale hair, draws the blonde down until their mouths meet and tongues clash for control. They take their time. The fingers move lazily in and out, coated, glistening. The brunette opens wider, inviting more. Their hips rock together, a slow rhythm. Bodies tighten, muscles taut, breaths quick and sharp. Nothing else matters but the slow build, the wet sound of fingers working, the soft sounds that escape when a tongue flicks just right. A slender toy waits on the bedside. The blonde finds it, presses it into her lover’s hand. The brunette smiles and guides the tip along the slick entrance, then slips it inside, turning her wrist as the blonde watches, cheeks flushed, hips twitching at every stroke. Fingers and toy move together until both women tremble, clinging, lost in the heat.