Indoor Picnic

Victoria meant to steal an hour with Lilly under real sky. Then her boss dropped a lunch meeting on her. She had to call, heard the soft pause, and heard herself say, “Tonight. I swear.” Back to the screen, wrist clicking over keys. Lilly sat with the cold phone for a long minute. Then she smiled, gathered everything she’d packed—the blanket, the wine, the small tubs of olives and soft cheese—and carried it all upstairs. She arranged the blanket across their bed, tucked clusters of flowers along the pillows, and set out the fruit. Bright red apples, already sliced, looked obscene on white linen. When the door finally opened downstairs, she waited, bare feet on cool hardwood, heart quick on her ribs. Victoria stopped in the doorway and laughed once, surprised. “Lilly…” Lilly crossed the room, caught her collar, and pulled her in. Their mouths met hard. Victoria tasted like coffee and mints; Lilly tasted like strawberries she’d already eaten. Jacket, blouse, skirt—gone in a hurried slide of cloth. Lilly dragged Victoria onto the bed, the blanket warm under their knees, and climbed over her. She pressed an apple slice between Victoria’s lips, watched the juice run down her chin, then licked it away. Fingers sank low, found wet heat, and stroked with steady patience. Victoria arched, breath breaking; Lilly rode her thigh, grinding until she shook and came with a soft, open-mouthed cry against Victoria’s throat. She kept working her hand until Victoria followed, hips jerking, thighs clenching hard around Lilly’s wrist. Spent and still tasting fruit, they lay tangled on the picnic blanket, breathing slowed to the same deep rhythm.