Let's take a bath

Inna and Zheina slip into the bath. Steam rises around them, hot water lapping at soft skin. One of them leans back, spreads her legs; the other reaches in with two fingers, parting folds that are slick for reasons other than soap. The first sighs—quick, open-mouthed. Fingers sink deeper, angle just right. She rocks against the palm, water sloshing over the rim every time she rolls her hips. Knees knock the porcelain, steam fogs the mirror. Tongues trace water beads off collarbones, nipples, down to the crease where thigh meets hip. Soapsuds mix with wetness that tastes nothing like the bath. Gasps echo off tile when lips suck at a swollen clit and hold it, flicking hard. Fingers pump in short strokes—knuckles bump against a tight little opening each time. The one on top shudders, rides the mouth harder, comes with a sharp exhale and a sudden jerk. Little waves keep sloshing, bodies glistening, slick between thighs and under tongues. They swap places, dripping hair clinging to flushed cheeks, hands moving under water until the next tremor arrives.