Sticky

Her day off starts in bed. No rush to leave. She turns, fingers drifting between her thighs, slow and light at first. She feels how wet she is already, how easily her fingers slide. The slickness spreads, coating her fingertips, drawing them back for more. She keeps going, savoring the warm, sticky mess her body makes. Each stroke pulls another bead of wetness from her, until her hand glistens and the sheets beneath her grow damp. The rhythm stays lazy, almost lazy, but her breath quickens as the pleasure builds. She presses harder, circling, rubbing, watching the way her own arousal clings to her skin.