Velma And Daphne

Daphne sets down two glasses of orange juice, then turns to find Velma still bent over her laptop at the kitchen table. The redhead exhales, walks over, and gently closes the screen. Velma blinks up at her. "Our anniversary," Daphne says. A flicker of guilt crosses Velma’s face; she reaches for Daphne’s hips, pulls her in, and kisses the soft skin just above the low waistband of her silk robe. Daphne shrugs the robe off one shoulder. Velma’s mouth finds her breast, sucks the nipple until it tightens. The robe slides to the floor. Daphne steps out of it, bare now except for the thin gold chain at her throat. Velma’s fingers trace the curve of her hip, then slip between her thighs and part her gently. Two fingers slide inside, slow and deliberate. Daphne rocks against the hand, soft sounds escaping her throat. Velma stands, spins her around so Daphne’s back meets the table, and presses deeper, thumb working her clit in tight circles. Daphne’s hands grip the edge of the table. Her breasts rise and fall with each quick breath. Velma leans in, kisses the hollow of her throat, then lowers her head to suck at a nipple again. The fingers inside move faster, curling upward each time they withdraw, stroking the spot that makes Daphne’s knees weaken. A sudden rush of wetness coats Velma’s knuckles. Daphne comes with a broken cry, thighs trembling around Velma’s wrist. Velma stays inside her until the pulses ease, then withdraws and brings her glistening fingers to Daphne’s lips. The redhead licks them clean, eyes locked on Velma’s. Outside, the morning light is bright, but the kitchen feels hushed and private, just the two of them.