Lesbian Psychotherapists #02

She came on April fourteenth, eight years back, her lips parted around an apology she never finished saying. I remember the wet sound her cunt made taking me in, slow and greedy. Light from the hallway caught her throat as her head went back. Nothing prepared me for the way her fingers dug into my shoulders, nails marking time with every thrust. She tasted of the last drink and something sweeter, something private she offered only then. We stayed locked together until the room smelled of skin and salt and the faint metallic note of the zipper she never bothered closing. Morning found us anyway.