Brunette love

Two women move together in the hush after a bath. The brunette is pale and spare, all small waist, lean thighs, long dark hair slicked down her spine. The other is fairer, hair still beaded with water, eyes half-closed in the lamplight. Their wet skin glistens as they reach for each other. The brunette runs her tongue along a droplet at the base of her lover’s neck, then traces the line down between her breasts. Fingerprints bloom on the damp curve of a hip. Their mouths meet—slow at first, tasting, then open and insistent. Hands glide lower, parting smooth, freshly bathed flesh. A soft, wet sound meets the rhythm of slender fingers slipping inside. One girl’s head tips back; the other watches, lips parted, then sucks the water from her throat. Breasts press together. Nipples harden against heated skin. The scent of soap and musk hangs between them. Outside the window, evening thickens and the room grows warmer. They linger on the edge of the bed, turning each other toward the pleasure they have promised. Each stroke, each open-mouthed kiss carries its own quiet inevitability.