Lovers

Amelia crosses the threshold and Fawn pulls her straight in. Last week still lingers—hotel sheets, hurried zipper, the taste that stayed on the tongue all night. Now the street-lamp glow stripes their bodies through cheap blinds. They crash into each other, mouths greedy, hair pasted to damp cheeks. Amelia’s fingers knot the back of Fawn’s shirt; Fawn hauls up the hem of Amelia’s dress until cotton knickers drag down trembling thighs. One hard tug and they drop. Fawn drops with them, sinks to her knees, parts damp curls with her tongue, works two fingers deep, curls them, sucks the swollen bud between them. Amelia shudders, moans, grips the windowsill. Then the tangle flips: Fawn sprawls across the beanbag, ass tipped high. Amelia buries her face there, tongue sweeping, fingers pumping. Hands lock together, knuckles white, squeezing like they might anchor the storm. They stay like that, switching places, switching rhythms, until the room smells only of sex and the lamplight slicks both their bodies.