Staircase

She perches on the staircase, hips rocking as she works two fingers deep inside herself. Footsteps—Annie Cruz, tight jeans low on her hips, stops dead when she sees Sindee. Sindee smiles, already wet, already needing it. They collide without a word. Their mouths press together; teeth scrape lips. Annie tastes like mint gum, Sindee tastes like tequila. Clothes scatter. Warm skin slides against wood. Sindee spreads wide on the step above and Annie’s mouth finds her clit, sucks once, hard, then sinks lower until her tongue slips between slick folds. Fingers follow—two inside, knuckle-deep, curling. Sindee jerks and bites her own wrist to hold back a scream, fails, swears loudly. Then they trade places. Annie lies back, knees wide, skirt bunched at her waist. Sindee feasts, greedy, licking every fold before she pushes her middle finger inside while her tongue presses circles around Annie’s swollen clit. Annie grabs a fistful of hair and bucks, loud, shameless. Their sounds echo up the stairs—wet tongues, wet fingers, a ragged chorus of “fuck” and “don’t stop.” Outside, traffic passes. Inside, neither hears it.