My Lover's Daughter

Cherie knows she shouldn’t. The timing is wrong, the girl is wrong, the whole heat between them is wrong. But the more that forbidden thought blooms, the wetter she grows. Isabella reaches first. Fingers grab the back of Cherie’s neck, pull her close. Their mouths clash, hot and wet, tongues tasting instantly. Cherie jerks back for one shaky breath, then drops forward again like the rope just snapped. A quick shove sends Isabella onto the bed. Cherie crawls over her, tears open the buttons of Isabella’s tiny shorts, yanks them low. One breath later her mouth is on the girl—slick lips sliding, tongue darting in with greedy, desperate strokes. Isabella arches, panting, her soft thighs squeezing Cherie’s head until she comes hard, thighs quivering. Then they flip. Isabella is quicker now, pinned beneath nothing but hunger. She spreads Cherie open, tongue flat and fast over swollen folds, fingers sliding deep, then curling fast enough to make the blonde shake. Cherie breaks—shuddering, cursing, soaking Isabella’s mouth. Both women keep going, switching in greedy turns, fingers slick and busy, tongues greedy until they fall together—breathless, sticky, sated, and afraid to move.