Moving In, Making Love

They had hauled the last box up three flights, and the apartment still smelled of fresh paint. Little Puck dropped onto the couch, rubbing her left shoulder with a wince. Sophia watched, then knelt behind her and slid both hands beneath the cotton tank. Her thumbs found the knot, pressing slow circles until Little Puck’s breath lengthened into something needier. Skin warmed under the pressure. Fingers slipped lower, grazing the swell of her breast. A quiet sound left Little Puck’s throat. She turned, lips already parted, and Sophia met her halfway. Their mouths opened, tongues slow and wet. Clothes fell away—tank, bra, denim shorts—until Sophia’s mouth closed over a heavy nipple and Little Puck arched, threading fingers through dark hair. She pulled Sophia up, rolling her onto the cushions, and slid a thigh between hers. Sophia was already slick. Little Puck’s fingers parted her folds, stroking once, twice, then sinking inside. Sophia moaned into her mouth, hips rising to meet each thrust. They moved together in the new quiet, sweat cooling on bare skin, until Sophia’s climax pulsed around Little Puck’s fingers and the day’s ache melted into something sharper, sweeter.