The Fight

Cassie and Sara had only been sharing the apartment a couple weeks when the tension boiled over. Sara snapped because Cassie set a dirty plate in a clean sink. Cassie acted like it meant nothing, but the sting lingered under her skin. Later she slipped into her room to drown it out, shedding her clothes in a hurry. Fingers skimmed her smooth, bare mound, then slid lower as her mind flashed back to Sara’s mouth between her legs. The memory fed the fire. Her palm skimmed up her belly, cupped a small, tight breast, teased the stiff nipple until her breath caught. Need tightened and she drove two fingers inside, working them with a wet, quick rhythm. Both hands now—one circling her swollen clit, the other plunging deep. She pulled the fingers free, slick and glistening, and tasted herself, tongue swirling, pretending Sara’s taste was still on them. On her knees, ass raised, she imagined Sara behind her, tongue licking broad and insistent over her swollen lips and deeper, thrusting. Cassie shoved her fingers back in, faster, hips jerking, the slap of skin loud. The heat spiked, tore through her, and she came hard—shaking, gasping—like the nights Sara wouldn’t stop until she was spent and trembling again.