#winegals

“Morning, love,” Fleur says, that husky voice, the almost musical accent to her words. She comes full into view, nothing on, nothing hiding, no shame, embarrassment or concern. (Their naked bodies pressed together, the taste of wine on her tongue, the feel of her fingers against her skin, the sound of Fleur’s voice in her ear)

She kisses Serena, tastes of toothpaste and mint, slides against her as she slips back into bed, a cheeky smile on her face. “Don’t look half bad considering you had the best sex of your life last night.” (So good, so good, so good, Serena’s whole body tensed, taut, Fleur’s fingers, her mouth, her thighs, all working, Serena’s lips, red from biting, pressed together to keep the moan, the yell, the shout at bay)

“I think that goes both ways, if what you whispered in my ear before falling asleep has any truth to it,” Serena counters, moving to her side, looking Fleur straight in the eyes, doesn’t miss the slight flush of her cheeks. (Chin tucked on her shoulder, sweat-sticky bodies stuck together, gentle words let loose: “You’re amazing, Serena, don’t know what took you so long,” a sly chuckle, eyelashes against her cheek)

She traces a finger against Fleur’s smooth cheek, her fingers curling into her curls, made messy from sex, from sleep, from her own two hands. Serena leans in, presses her lips against Fleur’s, loves the softness of it. (New and familiar all at once, like recognizing a part of herself she’s never acknowledged, Serena can’t get enough of silky feminine skin, the floral scent that clings to her hair, the wholly female-ness to everything)

“What are you doing this evening?” Fleur asks, her eyes still closed when Serena moves away, her eyelashes fluttering, even as Serena’s hand begins to move, her fingers trailing a path against her warm skin, stopping to caress a nipple, to make it pucker to attention, thinks about putting her mouth there, distracted from the question. (Fleur’s mouth on her breasts, Fleur’s mouth between her thighs, Fleur’s teeth nipping at her navel, at her hips, Fleur Fleur Fleur an endless sensation of Fleur)

“I was thinking of skipping Albie’s,” Serena says, her hand drifting to Fleur’s other breast, Fleur moving onto her back, arching her back just so, displaying herself to Serena’s hungry eyes, “And maybe just coming back here.” Fleur’s smile is answer enough, approval enough. (She’s never come so hard, so fast, so many times, is tired from it, elated from it, exuberant exhausted titillated, and all she wants is to do it again again again)