You Look Familiar

Claire Roos lies naked on the table with nothing but a towel over her ass. In walks Charlie Forde, shuts the door behind her. The second their eyes meet, Charlie cocks her head. "You look familiar," she says. Claire squints back and answers the same thing, but nobody can place the memory. "Screw it," Charlie shrugs, "let’s rub you down anyway." Charlie pumps oil into her hands. "Anything giving you grief?" "Just trying to chill," Claire says, "but hit my lower back and legs a little harder if you’ve got it." She plants her face in the cradle. Charlie starts at the shoulders, works down slow and steady, thumbs sinking in, knuckles dragging warm trails over bare skin. With every long glide down Claire’s spine the towel slips lower, and every slide back up rides the line between professional and something else. Fingertips brush the edge of that towel, linger a beat too long on the swell of Claire’s ass, then move on. The room’s quiet except for the soft, wet sound of palms on skin and the occasional tiny sigh from Claire. Charlie switches to the legs. She starts at the calves, fingers sinking into muscle, then travels up, up, pushing the towel back until nothing hides the curve where thigh meets butt. Claire’s breathing turns heavy. Charlie’s own pulse thumps in her fingertips. They still can’t remember why they know each other’s faces, but the air between them crackles all the same. Each pass of Charlie’s slick hands feels less like a massage and more like a dare, and both women are waiting to see who’ll break first.