The Guesthouse - Chapter 1

Olive lands in Spain with one aim—sun, silence, her body undone by nothing but heat. Instead, she finds Felicia, queen of six empty loungers, arms spread like she paid for the whole damn pool. Olive is up before the sky turns gold. She drops her towel, loses the bikini, and stretches naked across the prize lounger, skin already drinking light. Felicia arrives, towel over her shoulder, mouth half open. “Would you mind?” Olive lifts the bottle, offers it without sitting up. “My back.” Oil hits warm skin. Felicia’s palms follow—shoulder blades, spine, the dip above her ass—slow, almost reluctant, until reluctance melts into greed. She reaches the thighs, spreads them, keeps moving. Two fingers slide along slick folds, tongue replaces them, hungry and sure. Olive comes with a short, broken sound, hips bucking once, twice, the lounger creaking under her. She flips Felicia without a word, pulls her hips up, spreads her from behind. Tongue works tight circles, two fingers push deep, wet, curling. Felicia moans into her own forearm. They end up chest to chest, legs scissored, grinding hard and wet, eyes locked until the second climax rips through both of them, sharp, sudden, shared.