Game, Set, Massage

They come off the court laughing, sand stuck to their thighs, bikinis clinging wet. Jordan rolls her shoulders and swears under her breath. Aria drops onto the bed, pats the sheet between her legs. “Lie down.” Jordan stretches out. The bikini top straps get shoved aside first—then pulled. Aria’s palms slide over bare skin, knuckles pushing into tight muscle, but the pressure shifts. Fingers press lower, drag the thin bottom down her hips, off. Jordan’s breath catches when a slick thumb brushes the soft outer curve already warm and slick. Aria leans in, bites the shell of her ear, keeps working those fingers deeper, circling, quick and relentless. Bodies tangle. The sheet twists under them. Breaths get short, skin slaps, thighs lock around a guiding wrist. Jordan’s moan turns into a string of half-swallowed words when two fingers push in, curling up, pumping fast. Aria rides her own hand against Jordan’s thigh, grinding, eyes half-shut, mouth open. They crash together, breath and sweat and fingers and tongues—nothing slow, nothing sweet—just heat and grind and the loud wet sound of taking what they both came for.