Over Their Clothes

Skye lounges on her bed. Dee pushes the door open, laundry basket on her hip. “Need anything washed?” Skye shakes her head—no. Then Dee’s eyes drag over Skye’s outfit, slow and greedy. “That top looks perfect on you,” she says, voice turning husky. Heat rises between them like steam off hot pavement. Skye swallows hard. “We can’t. You’re my stepmom.” Dee steps closer, breath hitching. “If we only touch over our clothes… it doesn’t count, right?” Fingertips trace the stiff edge of Skye’s nipple through thin fabric. Skye’s hips roll forward despite herself. Dee presses her palm against the slick heat between Skye’s thighs; Skye’s clit pulses against the yoga pants. They grind and rub, mouths inches apart, thumbs circling stiff nipples, slick fabric sticking to every swell. Moans grow raw and guttural. Pussy lips swell. Fabric soaks. Then a hot pulse—Skye gasps, arching, a squirt gushing dark down her crotch; Dee follows, shuddering, wet spreading like a gunshot between her legs. They stare, chests heaving, eyes black with want. Fingers tremble. The line thins. Will they cross it?