Cheeky

Jasmine stood in the doorway, arms loose at her sides. Hope’s gaze tracked the line of her collarbone down to the curve of her breast beneath soft cotton. She stepped close, paused, then slid her palms under the shirt and lifted it away. Neither spoke. Hope’s thumb brushed a taut nipple and Jasmine exhaled. Her back met the wall; she lifted one knee, and Hope’s mouth found the skin just above her waistband. Hope’s fingers hooked, tugged—cotton whispered down Jasmine’s thighs. Cool air touched slick heat. Hope pressed two fingers upward, slow, turning at the knuckle to draw a trembling sound from Jasmine’s throat. Jasmine’s hand fumbled, found Hope’s zipper, freed her. She pushed past lace, found the wet seam, and answered each slow stroke with one of her own. They moved as if they had practiced this, wrist and hips matched, neither rushing. Breath shortened. Jasmine’s free hand clenched in Hope’s hair, pulling her closer, urging teeth to replace tongue on her breast. Hope opened wider, licked beneath, left a glistening trail to the nipple and back again. Every withdrawal of Hope’s fingers trailed wetness down Jasmine’s inner thigh; every thrust back in pressed deeper. Jasmine’s walls fluttered, then locked. A sharp gasp tore out of her as the orgasm struck. Hope kept the rhythm gentle through the contractions, riding them out until Jasmine’s fingers, still buried inside her, echoed the rhythm and drove Hope over the edge. They leaned into each other against the wall, slick fingers gliding slower now, the air warm with breath and the scent of spent lust.