Milky

Olive G's blender hums. Strawberry chunks swirl pink and violent. Aria Eden shoves through the kitchen door, reeking of sweat and iron. She drops her towel. Her sports bra clings wet to muscle and skin. Olive breathes her in and the room feels smaller. "Smells filthy," she says, already tasting salt in her mouth. Aria laughs low, grabs the shake, takes a long pull. Strawberry runs down her chin. Olive steps close, licks it off, teeth catching the scrape of stubble. The first kiss tastes like fruit and old gym floors. Aria hauls Olive up onto the counter. The blender stops. Silence except for breath and zippers. Olive peels the bra off, drags her tongue across sweat-slick collarbone, down the dip between her tits. Aria rips Olive's shorts open and two fingers slide straight in—fast, rough, no patience. Olive's moan comes out cracked. They fuck like they've got somewhere else to be and can't stop anyway. Orgasm one hits Aria while she's still standing: knees dip, thighs shake, voice ripping a string of profanity across tile. Olive drops to the floor right after, legs splayed, fingers buried to the knuckles, back slamming cabinets in rhythm until the second wave punches through her and leaves her soaked and laughing against Aria's thigh. Sweat and fruit juice drip together. Neither one is cool yet.