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Stelle finally sweeps Kafka’s legs out from underneath her. There’s a moment when time slows: her breath catching, Kafka falling back as Stelle follows through the motion and stands, Kafka’s guns bouncing off the floor. Holy shit, I did it! flashes through Stelle’s mind. Then time speeds up again, and Kafka’s already moving to stand.
Without thinking, Stelle throws herself on top of Kafka, staddling her hips and pinning her arms above her head. Kafka lets out an “Oof” as she’s slammed back into the ground.
Her pulse flutters beneath Stelle’s hands, her fingers curling gently upwards above like she’s reaching for heaven. She looks up at Stelle through hooded eyes and a sly grin as Stelle shakes and pants and shakes sweat from her eyes. Despite the achy- and noodley-ness of her muscles, Stelle grins a triumphant, toothy grin.
“You mean like this?” she asks. She shifts position, flexes her grip on Kafka’s wrist, takes in the way Kafka pushes up against her. “Or,” her voice lowers, mimicking Kafka’s own sultry whisper as she leans down until her breath mixes with Kafka’s, “perhaps like this?”
Golden eyes stare into magenta. Two hearts slow to the same resting beat. Silver hair strands escape from a high ponytail and hang between them. A pink tongue swipes across Stelle’s lips as she considers, hesitates, starts to lean forward and whispers, “Do I get a treat, mommy?” The words ghosting over Kafka’s lips.
Kafka hums. She wiggles in Stelle’s grip, then smirks, “Take a guess.”
Suddenly, there’s movement. A twist. A push upward. A spinning flash of the ceiling. The air fwooshes out of Stelle’s lungs as her back slams against the floor. She blinks against the brightness of the ceiling lights.
Then, Kafka’s the one straddling her. Thick thighs bracketing Stelle’s chest and knees digging into her elbows, Kafka settles back. Her weight pressing down on Stelle like a weighted heatpack. The scent of sweat and flowers fills Stelle’s nose.
Stelle slowly drags her gaze upwards. Kafka’s tights pull where her thighs bulge out. The inseams of her shorts slide upwards toward her crotch, and sweat stains turn her white undershirt slightly transparent, the faint shadow of her belly button and the lace edging of her bra just visible from Stelle’s angle. All the way up to Kafka’s smirking lips framed by long fingers as Kafka waits for Stelle’s next move.
“Careful,” Kafka purrs. “Wouldn’t want you to overheat now, would we?”
Flushing even brighter, even hotter, Stelle swallows, moistens her lips again. “So…” she croaks out. “No kisses?”
Kafka laughs. The sharp motion of it rocks her entire body and sends the breath from Stelle’s lungs again. She shakes her head. “A lucky strike does not a master make, but…” She leverages herself to her feet; Stelle lets a quiet ‘eep’. “Perhaps, if you’re a good girl and keep practicing… I could maybe be persuaded.”
Golden eyes brighten, pink tongue flashes over lips, a broad, hungry grin stretches over Stelle’s face.
“Of course, you won’t get so lucky again.”
Stelle barely has time to bring her arms up to block before Kafka’s pressing into her space with quick punches, sharp elbows, and flying kicks. She hits the floor again and again, and she gets up again and again. Every bang and bruise will be worth it if she can steal even a single kiss from Kafka’s lips.