The Queen

The letter landed like a slap. Kiara's pulse jumped when she spotted her ex's handwriting. Years apart and she still felt the kick in her chest-and lower. The redhead flipped pages, imagined the woman dictating them, and her nipples stiffened under the thin robe. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, thinking of the last time they showered together, soap gliding over full breasts and greedy tongues, and suddenly she slid two fingers between her slick folds right there on the couch. She circled, pressed harder, dragged every bittersweet memory up like it owed her, hips lifting on the brink. Then the door cracked open and the spell broke. Alyssa stood framed in daylight, telling her she needed work, admission essays due in three days and no cash. Kiara sighed, half grin, half glare, set the robe back across her thighs, and fired off orders before the girl could blink. Twenty minutes later Alyssa shoved a full mug of steaming cocoa toward her mouth. Kiara snagged it, cocoa splashed, argument blazed, and the next thing they both knew Alyssa knelt on the hardwood, robe pushed aside, face pressed to the soles she'd been ordered to lick. The room quieted except for soft, wet sounds and shallow breathing. Kiara spread her legs, dragged Alyssa closer by the hair, and fastened her mouth over the smaller, sweeter heat between those thighs. She thought of the letter again, licked like she used to, like revenge and memory rolled into one sticky feast. Chocolate cooled untouched on the counter.