When her fingers are inside her, the sky melts. No, really. The damn thing melts and she feel like every cliche that's ever been spoken ever. There's something about her fingers that makes everything liquefy. Her, the sky, the walls. It's an acid fantasy hallucination softness.
Perfectly filed fingernails, hands clean and smooth.
She finger fucks her and her head implodes.
It's the stuff of Candyland and those little Necco hearts that melt in your mouth at Valentine's Day.
They lay together; soft, golden sheen like a halo around them, their sweat and the morning sun eking through the blinds. They haven't slept. They hardly sleep when it's dark.
She speaks softly into her mouth, little teeny tiny words unintelligible to any one but her.
She strokes her hair. She arches her back.
When her mouth covers hers, she hears the ocean in her ears. It's like when you press a conch shell to your head; the echo. It covers every other sound on this planet except the sound of her voice. She hears nothing but her. Heartbeat. Bones creak. Echo.
Sweet voice like honey. Pink tongue attacking her own lips.
She lays between her thighs and murmurs furtively into her.
It's like an orchestra and the sea licking the sand all at once.
Their legs entwine, sugar stubble and pedicured toes; they lie face to face and crush breasts together, lips and tongues and teeth. They memorize every look, the way her brown eyes reflect her hazel-rimmed eyes and the way their hair never matches but compliments each other perfectly.
She laps at her wetness, long, redolent paths of her tongue against her lips and her clit.
She arches tighter. She gasps and she moans and she cries out.
There was a time before this, a time when the two were with other and different destinies. But destiny became such an ugly word, only spit with a reproach that was held back for anything but that. Vitriolic thunder. He had a destiny and he had a destiny and she had a destiny and she had a destiny. Only two of them had the balls to take what they actually wanted.