Lez friends

Lis and Wendy have this effortless thing together. Two Russians, stunning in that offhand way that stops conversation when they walk in. They don’t put on a show. They simply fold into each other, knees sliding open on soft sheets, fingertips gliding over warm skin like they’ve done this a hundred times already. Wendy leans in first. Her mouth finds Lis’s throat, tongue dragging slow across the pulse there while her hand cups one breast and squeezes just enough to make Lis sigh. Lis arches into it, one leg hooking over Wendy’s hip so nothing stays hidden. Her fingers slip between Wendy’s thighs and part the slick folds with two knuckles, stroking in small, confident circles until Wendy’s breath catches and her hips rock forward. No hesitation, just heat and hunger trading back and forth. They move like they have all night and no plans after. Wendy’s tongue traces the line of Lis’s collarbone before dropping lower, tasting salt, tasting sweat. Lis’s hand stays busy—sliding one, then two fingers inside her, thumb pressing lazy circles over her clit. The sounds they make are quiet but unmistakable, the wet drag of skin on skin and the occasional broken moan when one of them hits exactly right. Lis comes first, a shudder rolling through her as Wendy’s lips close over her nipple and sucks. She doesn’t stop moving her hand, though. She keeps Wendy right on the edge, curling her fingers and coaxing until Wendy’s thighs tighten around her wrist and she follows, clenching and gasping against Lis’s mouth. They stay tangled, breathing each other in, the room smelling like sex and skin and expensive sheets.