Velma And Daphne

Daphne woke at six. She cracked eggs into a bowl, whisked them until they thinned and foamed, and slid them into a pan that hissed the second the butter kissed the heat. Bacon went in next—thick-cut, maple-cured—so the kitchen smelled rich, sweet, almost indecent. She wore nothing beneath the silk robe that cinched at her waist; the chill of the marble counter still brushed her nipples whenever she leaned forward to stir. Velma had forgotten. That much was clear when the redhead stepped into the bedroom with two laden plates and found her still buried under the duvet, phone forgotten on the nightstand, the narrow slice of late-morning light sliding across her bare shoulder. Daphne set the tray down, slipped out of the robe, and climbed in behind her. She pressed her hips to the swell of Velma’s ass, slipped a hand between her thighs, and felt the quick pulse of surprise there. “Happy anniversary,” Daphne murmured, teeth grazing the soft skin at Velma’s nape. Her fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles. Velma breathed out, half apology, half moan, but Daphne didn’t wait for words. She turned her lover onto her back, straddled her, and guided Velma’s hand to where she was already slick and warm. The breakfast cooled on the tray. The city outside could keep its ghosts. Right now Daphne intended to be worshipped, and she wasn’t sharing.