Lost And Found

Serene stands at the door clutching the battered journal like it might run off. “Found this on the 42,” she blurts, rubbing the back of her neck. "Tried not to snoop, but you left the flap blank. Had to skim a couple pages before I could bring it back to you." Leana eyes the cover, cheeks flaring. Serene hurries on. "You write like you're confessing. Couldn't help sensing the shape of the person behind the pen." A faint grin. "Wondered if that person would mind meeting its reader." Leana stands there, breathing shallow, pulse pressing hot under her tongue. She steps aside. Serene crosses the threshold. The deadbolt clicks like a secret being locked in. They don't exchange many more words; they don't need them. Leana's robe drops in a quiet hiss. Serene peels her blouse off one shoulder at a time, revealing smooth skin and the ink-dusted perfume of citrus and smoke. Fingertips meet ribs. Palms map heat. Leana opens her mouth to Serene's slow, searching tongue. They fuck the way people who've read each other already would: rough when needed, slow like stolen time, wet, hungry, bodies locking and unlocking with the same rhythm Leana wrote about. Serene's thigh slides between her legs; Leana grinds until her breath cracks open. Afterwards they tangle, half-clothed, laughing under their breath, tasting salt and honesty on the other's mouth.