Rose without thorns

Daniella Rose is no wall of thorns. She’s soft where Margo has waited years for softness, the girl who laughs with her whole mouth open and slides her palm up the inside of a thigh without asking first. Now the two of them never really leave the bedroom. Mornings start with Margo waking to a tongue already parting her, long strokes that make her knees buckle before she’s even upright. Afternoons they trade fingers on the couch, knees hooked over the armrest, slow and slick, racing to see who melts first. Evenings they fuck in silence, forehead to forehead, letting the wet sounds of cunt against cunt say everything. Daniella kisses Margo’s mouth like she means to drink the breath out of her, then dips lower to lap at her nipples until they ache, and still she keeps her fingers working—Margo’s, Daniella’s, doesn’t matter. One girl comes and the other follows without missing a beat, and the room fills with nothing but gasps and the quiet slap of skin on skin until the sheets are soaked and they roll over to start again.