What Husband?

India Summer waits by the table, towel barely hanging on, when Lyra Law busts in like she wants to punch a wall. One look and India knows this girl needs to come down fast. "Got something brand new today," she says with that sly grin. "Nuru massage. You and that slippery full-body slide? Works like a charm." Lyra stops cold. "Shit. Me and Riley tried that on our honeymoon." Hot water blasts in the shower. India drags the wet cloth over every inch, slow circles around Lyra's tits, down her stomach, fingers getting nice and personal. Lyra's shoulders drop for the first time. "Sorry for the attitude," Lyra mutters. "Riley's been ice cold lately." India shrugs, smooth hands never stopping. "That’s what I’m here for. Make you forget every damn thing." They hit the mat slick and naked. India glides, tits dragging over Lyra’s back, belly sliding against her ass, every press sticky and warm. She keeps it professional, but she can’t help it when her fingers dip low between Lyra’s thighs. "Shame about your husband," India murmurs, almost to herself. Lyra snorts, turning her head. "Husband? Riley’s my wife." India freezes. Lyra laughs, low and throaty. "Guess that shower wasn’t just a massage after all, huh? You’re getting pretty handsy for a straight girl." India stammers some shit about professional boundaries, but Lyra’s already rolling her onto her back. The kiss hits like a shot of liquor. India’s brain clocks out. Lyra dives between her legs, tongue flicking over India’s clit until she’s gasping and bucking. Thighs slide together, slippery skin on skin, tribbing so hard they leave wet streaks on the mat. India flips them, experiments with her own mouth, fingers, whatever feels right, until they’re both panting and shaking. No more bad day. Just two girls catching their breath on soaked towels.