A better program

The remote died right before her show. Payton swore at the black screen and felt the night tilt toward nothing. Then Paloma walked in, keys still swinging, and took one look. "Forget the TV," she said, and crossed the room in two steps. They kissed hard enough to taste each other's urgency, tongues already speaking for them. Paloma walked Payton backward until her shoulders met the wall, never breaking the kiss. Her hands slid beneath Payton's shirt, palms warm and sure, while her knee pressed between Payton's thighs. When she finally pulled her mouth away it was only to drop to her knees. She peeled Payton's leggings down in one swift tug, dragged the cotton panties with them, and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the soft hair at the top of Payton's mound. Payton gasped, hips tilting forward. Paloma licked a slow stripe along the seam of her, tasting salt and heat. She spread Payton open with careful fingers, found the swollen clit with her tongue, and began a steady rhythm—gentle sucks, flat licks, the occasional sharp flick that made Payton's knees buckle. Payton grabbed a fistful of Paloma's hair, held her closer, rode the wet heat of that mouth until her breath came in short, helpless bursts. When she came she curled forward, forehead to the wall, thighs trembling around Paloma's ears. Paloma stayed there until the aftershocks eased, then stood, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and grinned. "Better than cable," she murmured.