Touch Of A Woman

Dillion Harper had never been touched like this. The first five minutes felt like a dare she might back out of any second. She'd pictured firm male hands, not India's slender fingers gliding up her oiled calves. The conversation with the consultant came back to her: give it a real chance. Now those smooth palms worked higher, and Dillion’s skin prickled at every shift in pressure. India read the silence and pressed deeper, thumbs rolling into the tight bands under her ass. Dillion exhaled hard. Something hot uncoiled behind her navel; the fear slid off with the last knot of muscle. She spread her thighs without thinking, hips tilting just enough to meet the next stroke. India answered the cue, the heel of her palm dragging straight across slick heat, slow enough to count heartbeats. Dillion’s breath caught, broke. Every pass turned wetter, firmer, each finger line leaving a memory she’d still feel tomorrow. She came without warning, quick and quiet, then again louder when two practiced fingertips curled inside and stayed there, coaxing the aftershocks into fresh, rolling peaks. Later she’d remember only heat, oil, the clean rasp of India’s breathing, and the way her own legs kept trembling long after the hands left her.