Lingering FIngers

Her fingertips trace the length of her lover’s thigh, unhurried, until they reach the damp heat between spread legs. A single long finger parts wet lips and sinks in, drawing a soft gasp. Tongues meet—slow, then urgent—fighting a gentle war. The women rock against each other, bodies tight, every muscle drawn taut. There’s nowhere else to be; the afternoon belongs to the slick glide of fingers and the soft, obscene sounds of pleasure they pull from one another.