Sapphic joy

I spend my free afternoons with my girlfriend, usually stretched out on the bed in the pale light that slips past the curtains. She wears black lace lingerie. I wear white. The fabric feels cool against our skin before the heat takes over. We kiss slowly at first, then harder. Her hand slides down my stomach and under the lace. My fingers find her thigh. Our breathing changes. The room fills with soft sounds, mine and hers, low and close. Every touch makes the other shiver. She pulls me closer and our legs tangle. The lingerie slips down one shoulder, then the other. Skin meets skin. We move together without hurry, tasting, pressing, learning every curve again. Time stops mattering. Nothing exists except the way we fit and the small sounds we make when we do.