What Husband?

India Summer waits by the massage table. The door flies open and Lyra Law storms in, phone clutched tight, frustration all over her face. India steps close and lets her voice drop low, velvet-soft, saying everything will smooth out the second Lyra slips her clothes off. “Been using NURU on my wife Riley since our honeymoon,” Lyra mutters, already tugging her shirt over her head. They stand bare under warm water. India’s hands glide with long, oily strokes down Lyra’s shoulders, over her breasts, lower still, until Lyra sighs and leans in. “Sorry for barging in mad,” she whispers. India shushes her, thumbing soap between her thighs. “My only job is to let you forget every rough hour.” They step onto the mat slick with gel. India lays her body over Lyra’s, breasts pressed, hips rocking in long, wet slides that leave both women gasping. Professionalism slips. When India murmurs she’s sorry to hear Lyra’s marriage troubles with her husband, Lyra laughs outright. “Husband? Riley’s my wife.” India flushes, but her hands keep moving. Lyra meets her stare. “You sure you’re straight? That shower felt like more than muscle work.” India starts to protest; Lyra kisses the words away. Tongues meet, slick and hungry. India’s thighs part. Lyra sinks between them, tongue flicking, fingers curling, until India’s back arches and she moans. They trade places, bodies slipping, bellies slapping, India learning the give and catch of another woman for the first time. Each wet grind tightens, deepens, until pleasure crashes through both of them and leaves them panting, spent and smiling.