Butterflies

I saw it the second she leaned over: a tiny blue butterfly on the curve of her hip, matching the one I’ve carried for years. Blonde hair spilled down her bare back. That was all I needed. I snapped my fingers, and she looked up, eyes wide, mouth parting in a soft sound. When I pulled her close, she didn’t pull away. Instead she turned, offering herself without a word. The brunette had her in seconds, spitting on her fingers, sliding them deep where the tight ring of muscle gave. Sabrina arched, breath catching. Lube glistened. Then came the slow, relentless push—smooth, hard, buried to the hilt. Skin slapped against skin. Every thrust rocked her forward. She moaned louder, reaching back to spread herself wider, taking every inch like she’d waited for it. The butterfly trembled with each shove. Faster now, hips snapping, sweat beading on her spine. I held her open and drove in harder until her legs shook and her voice broke into one long, desperate whimper. She came shaking around me, face pressed to the sheets, the little blue wings fluttering with every aftershock.