Bedtime story

They crawl into the same bed the way they always do, legs brushing, breath already thick between them. One of them shifts first, sliding her palm along the inside of her girlfriend’s thigh until it stops at warm cotton. She pushes the fabric aside without ceremony. The other girl bites her lip, then spreads her knees wider so the bedside light can land right where she wants it seen. They stare openly, taking in each other’s bare slits—swollen, flushed, slick at the center. Fingers replace fabric. One traces the other’s folds, parting them to watch the wetness stretch. The girlfriend on her back lifts her hips, desperate, and they both look at the same time. The softest sound leaves her when fingertips brush her clit, followed by a longer, trembling inhale when the hand presses down and rubs once, slow and firm. Sheets rustle. Their mouths find skin. Someone whispers yes. The room goes smaller, hotter, thick with the wet sound of hands moving between bare thighs and the soft slap of skin against skin.