Wild Elevator Ride

Anna Claire Clouds and Chanel Camryn hit the frame like a double dose of trouble. Black lace clings where it shouldn’t and barely hides what it should. They step into the elevator still half-dressed, mouths already locked, tongues searching. Lace falls to the floor in two silent heaps. Skin meets skin. Hands slide, grip, pull closer. One breath stutters. The other answers in kind. Tongues trace wet lines across throats, collarbones, the swell of breasts, down the soft dip of bellies. Every place fingers land pulls another small sound from somewhere deep. They don’t stop until the elevator doors open again.