Harvest Moon: Her Best Friend’s Last Taste

Naomi’s rental car kicked gravel as she turned onto the rutted lane that led to Ingrid’s family’s place. Twenty-eight years old, city dirt still under her fingernails from last week’s gallery shoot, and here she was again—back in the same damn valley that had raised her, the air thick with woodsmoke and the sweet rot of late apples. The harvest moon hung enormous and copper-red above the ridgeline, already throwing long shadows across the fields. She killed the engine and sat for a second, pulse hammering in her throat. Three years since she’d last touched Ingrid. Three years of pretending the late-night texts and the careful distance meant nothing.

Ingrid was waiting on the porch steps in scuffed boots and a flannel shirt knotted at her waist, dark hair pulled into a messy braid that left freckles exposed along her collarbones. Twenty-seven, farm-raised, veterinarian hands already callused from morning rounds. When she stood, the motion made her breasts shift under the thin cotton, and Naomi’s mouth went dry.

“You came,” Ingrid said, voice low, almost rough. She didn’t hug right away. Just looked. Those green eyes dragged down Naomi’s travel-wrinkled black jeans, the camera bag slung across her chest, the way city life had sharpened her cheekbones. “Jesus, you look good enough to eat.”

Naomi stepped out, boots crunching. “You invited me. Didn’t think I could stay away from your last Harvest Moon.” The words came out steadier than she felt. Up close the scent of Ingrid hit her—hay, clean sweat, that cheap citrus lotion she still used. Naomi’s fingers itched to reach, to trace the open V of the flannel down between her breasts.

Ingrid finally pulled her in. The hug lasted too long. Full bodies pressed: Ingrid’s soft tits crushing against Naomi’s, thighs brushing, breath hot against Naomi’s ear. Ingrid’s hands slid under the hem of Naomi’s jacket, palms flat and warm on the small of her back, fingertips just grazing the top of her ass. Naomi felt herself get wet between her legs in a sudden, humiliating rush. She turned her face into Ingrid’s neck and breathed her in, lips almost grazing skin.

“I missed this,” Ingrid murmured. “Missed you smelling like expensive shampoo and city rain.” One thumb stroked slow circles just above Naomi’s waistband. “Come on. Everyone’s down at the south field. Bonfire’s already lit.”

They walked the path together, shoulders knocking. Festival lights glowed through the trees—string bulbs, the crackle of the big harvest fire already throwing sparks into the dark. Music drifted, fiddles and laughter, the smell of roasted corn and spilled cider. Neighbors called out greetings. Old Mr. Keene waved from a hay bale. Somebody shoved paper cups of hot mulled wine into their hands. Naomi barely tasted it. Every time Ingrid’s arm brushed hers the contact sparked straight to her clit.

They found a quieter spot at the edge of the firelight, up against the rail fence where the moon poured silver over Ingrid’s face. Ingrid leaned her elbows on the wood, staring into the flames. The flannel had come untied; a strip of smooth stomach showed, the dip of her navel. Naomi wanted to put her mouth there.

“So,” Naomi said, keeping her voice light even while her cunt throbbed. “Two years. Wildlife contract. You’re really going.”

Ingrid’s jaw tightened. She turned, and the look she gave Naomi was pure hunger mixed with something rawer. “Yeah. Leaves tomorrow night. Flight out of the city, then straight to the reserve. This is it—last night under this moon with you.” She reached out and hooked two fingers in Naomi’s belt loop, tugging her a step closer until their hips nearly touched. “I kept thinking I’d get brave enough to say it before. Never did.”

Naomi’s breath caught. “Say what?”

“That I’ve wanted to fuck you since we were nineteen and you taught me how to develop prints in your dad’s basement.” Ingrid’s voice dropped, intense, private under the distant music. “That every time you came home I’d go to bed soaked, touching myself thinking about your mouth on me. That this—” she gestured between their bodies, close enough now that Naomi felt the heat rolling off her “—has been killing me for years.”

The confession landed like a hand between Naomi’s legs. She swayed forward. Their mouths hovered inches apart. Ingrid’s breasts rose and fell fast. Naomi could see the hard points of her nipples through the shirt. She wanted to bite them. Wanted to shove Ingrid against the fence and shove a hand down those jeans and feel how wet her best friend already was.

“Ingrid—”

“I know you’re leaving again after the weekend. I know I’m gone for two fucking years. But tonight…” Ingrid’s free hand came up, cupped Naomi’s jaw, thumb dragging across her lower lip. The touch was electric. Naomi’s tongue flicked out without permission, tasting salt and skin. Ingrid made a soft, broken sound. “Tonight I don’t want to be careful anymore. I want your fingers inside me by that fire. I want to taste you while the whole town’s dancing fifty yards away and nobody knows.”

Naomi’s camera bag slipped off her shoulder and thudded forgotten to the grass. She pressed closer, thighs slotting between Ingrid’s, feeling the soft give of Ingrid’s cunt through denim against her own. The friction made both of them gasp. Ingrid’s braid brushed Naomi’s cheek. The moon painted everything copper and shadow—Ingrid’s parted lips, the flush climbing her throat, the way her hips gave a tiny, helpless roll.

“I’ve jerked off to the thought of your strap for three straight years,” Naomi whispered, filthy and honest. “Dreamed about bending you over a hay bale and eating you until you screamed. Every girlfriend I tried to have in the city just felt like a pale copy.” Her hand slid under Ingrid’s flannel now, palm spanning warm bare ribs, thumb brushing the underside of one heavy breast. No bra. Just soft skin and the tight peak of a nipple. Ingrid shuddered hard, eyes fluttering.

“Naomi—fuck—”

A burst of laughter from the bonfire crowd made them freeze, still locked together, hands roaming, breaths ragged. Someone shouted Ingrid’s name—Terrence, probably, wanting help with the cider keg. Ingrid didn’t answer. She just stared at Naomi like she was starving, pupils blown wide under the harvest moon.

“We can’t do this right here,” Ingrid managed, though her hand had already snuck under Naomi’s jacket again, squeezing the curve of her ass, fingers dipping lower, teasing the seam of her jeans right over her soaked center. “But I’m not letting you sleep in the guest room tonight. My bed. My mouth on every inch of you. I want to remember the way you taste when I’m halfway across the world.”

Naomi’s knees nearly buckled. She nodded, forehead dropping against Ingrid’s. Their noses brushed. Almost a kiss. The almost was worse than contact—hot, open-mouthed breathing, lips ghosting, neither quite closing the last millimeter while the fire cracked and the moon watched.

“Then stop teasing and take me somewhere darker,” Naomi said, voice shaking with how much she needed it. “Before I come just from you talking like that.”

Ingrid’s laugh was low and dirty. She caught Naomi’s wrist and tugged her along the fence line, away from the main light, deeper into the orchard shadows where the bonfire glow still painted the edges of leaves gold. Behind them the festival roared on—music, voices, the smell of smoke. Ahead, only the two of them and the unbearable weight of everything they hadn’t done yet.

Ingrid pushed Naomi back against the rough bark of an apple tree, bodies flush again, thighs grinding slow and deliberate. One of Ingrid’s hands shoved up Naomi’s shirt, found a breast, pinched the nipple hard enough to make Naomi whimper. The other worked open the button of Naomi’s jeans. Just the button. The zipper stayed closed, a deliberate torture. Ingrid’s fingers rested there, hot, not moving further, while her mouth finally—finally—brushed the corner of Naomi’s lips.

“Tell me you want this as bad as I do,” Ingrid breathed. “Tell me you’ll let me ruin you tonight.”

Naomi arched, chasing the almost-kiss, cunt clenching around nothing. “I want it more. I’ve always wanted it more. Don’t you dare stop.”

Ingrid smiled against her mouth, wicked and tender at once. Her fingers pressed harder over the zipper, rubbing slow circles through denim until Naomi was rolling her hips shamelessly, chasing friction. The moon hung huge above them. Somewhere close a log collapsed in the bonfire and sent a shower of sparks skyward, bright as the need clawing through both of them.

They were still dressed. Still half-hidden. Still not quite kissing. And the night had only just begun.

Ingrid’s fingers stayed locked around Naomi’s wrist as she pulled her deeper into the orchard, past the last straggling lights of the festival. The big fire’s roar faded to a distant crackle. Behind the old barn the ground sloped into a small hollow where a second, private fire already burned low—Ingrid must have set it earlier, just for this. Split logs glowed orange; the heat licked their faces the second they stepped into the circle of light. Moonlight poured over everything else, copper and silver at once, turning Ingrid’s freckled collarbones into something almost edible.

Naomi’s jeans were still open at the button. Every step made the zipper teeth scrape softly against her soaked underwear. She could feel how wet she already was, the fabric clinging to her cunt lips, the friction maddening. Ingrid turned, backed her toward a thick quilt spread on the grass beside the fire, and shoved her down onto it with both hands flat on Naomi’s shoulders. The wool scratched her bare lower back where the shirt had ridden up. Heat from the flames washed over one side of her body; night air cooled the other.

“I’ve thought about this exact spot,” Ingrid said, voice rough as she straddled Naomi’s thighs and sat. The solid weight of her settled heavy and perfect. Denim ground against denim. “Every fucking full moon for ten years I’ve come out here alone after the others leave, stuck my hand down my pants, and pretended it was your mouth. Tasted you in my head until I came so hard I saw stars. Decade of that. Of wanting to drag my tongue through you until you couldn’t walk straight.”

The confession hit Naomi like a second pulse between her legs. She surged up, both hands fisting in Ingrid’s open flannel, and yanked her down. Their mouths crashed together—no more almost, no more hovering. Ingrid’s lips were soft and hot and already parted; Naomi’s tongue shoved inside on the first breath. Ingrid moaned into it, a raw broken sound, and kissed back like she meant to devour her. Teeth clicked. Tongues slid wet and hungry. Naomi tasted cider and woodsmoke and the clean salt of Ingrid’s skin. She licked deeper, sucking Ingrid’s lower lip between her own, biting just hard enough to make Ingrid shudder and grind down harder.

“Yes,” Naomi gasped against her mouth between kisses. “Fuck yes. I’ve wanted your tongue on me since the first time I watched you peel an apple with that little knife and imagined it was my clit. Take it. Taste me. I’m yours tonight—clear and screaming yes.” Her hands were already everywhere: shoving the flannel off Ingrid’s shoulders so it pooled at her elbows, palms sliding up the warm bare ribs, cupping the heavy soft weight of Ingrid’s bare tits. No bra. Just skin and the tight, dark peaks of nipples that stiffened under Naomi’s thumbs. She pinched both at once, rolled them, felt Ingrid’s whole body jerk.

Ingrid broke the kiss only long enough to yank Naomi’s shirt up and off in one rough motion. Cool air hit Naomi’s skin; the fire painted her breasts gold. Ingrid stared for half a second, pupils blown, then dove back in—mouth open, kissing down Naomi’s throat, biting the tendon there, sucking a mark just above her collarbone while her hands shoved Naomi’s bra cups down. Free. Ingrid’s mouth found one nipple and latched on hard, tongue flicking, teeth grazing. Naomi arched off the quilt with a broken cry, fingers spearing into Ingrid’s braid and holding her there.

“God—Ingrid—your mouth—”

“Been starving for these,” Ingrid muttered around the peak, switching to the other breast, sucking deep until Naomi’s cunt clenched hard around nothing. One of Ingrid’s hands shoved between their bodies, finished yanking Naomi’s zipper down, and plunged straight into the open jeans. Fingers slid over soaked cotton, pressed hard against Naomi’s clit through the fabric. Circles. Firm. Exact. Naomi’s hips bucked up helplessly, grinding into the touch.

“So wet already,” Ingrid breathed, lifting her head just enough to look Naomi in the eye while her fingers kept working. “Dripping for me. Tell me again you want this. I need to hear it while I finally get my hand on you.”

“I want it,” Naomi said, voice wrecked, no hesitation. “I consent. I choose this. Finger me, taste me, fuck me stupid under this moon—I’ve waited too long. Don’t you dare stop.” She reached down, grabbed Ingrid’s wrist, and shoved the hand deeper past the waistband of her underwear. Bare skin. Slippery heat. Ingrid’s fingers slid through her folds instantly, two of them gliding through the slick mess, circling her swollen clit once, twice, then dipping lower to press at her entrance.

Naomi moaned loud enough that the distant festival music almost swallowed it. Ingrid’s fingers pushed inside—slow at first, just the tips, then deeper, curling, stretching. Two thick fingers filling her while the heel of Ingrid’s palm ground against her clit. Naomi’s walls clenched greedily around the intrusion. She fucked herself down onto them, riding the hand, head thrown back against the quilt so the harvest moon filled her vision completely.

Ingrid kissed her again, filthy and open, tongues sliding while her fingers thrust steady and deep. The wet sounds of Naomi’s cunt filled the small space between them—obscene, perfect. Firelight flickered over Ingrid’s freckled shoulders, the bounce of her bare tits as she worked her arm. Naomi shoved both hands between them, got Ingrid’s own jeans open, and shoved inside without preamble. Ingrid was just as soaked, smooth and hot, clit hard under Naomi’s fingertips. She rubbed firm circles exactly the way she’d always imagined, then slid two fingers into Ingrid in one smooth push.

Ingrid cried out into her mouth, hips jerking. “Fuck—Naomi—your fingers—”

They fucked each other like that, seated and tangled on the quilt, jeans shoved halfway down thighs, shirts gone or hanging open, fire warm on one side and moonlight silver on the other. Fingers plunging wet and deep. Mouths never far apart—kissing, biting lips, breathing each other’s moans. Naomi’s free hand stayed locked on Ingrid’s ass, pulling her closer so their wrists brushed, so every thrust ground their palms against each other’s clits. The friction was brutal and perfect. Ingrid’s braid came completely undone; dark hair spilled over Naomi’s face, smelling of hay and citrus lotion.

“I’ve dreamed of tasting you every single full moon,” Ingrid gasped, forehead pressed to Naomi’s, fingers still curling hard inside her, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind Naomi’s eyes. “Ten years of licking my own fingers and pretending. Tonight I get the real thing. I’m going to bury my face in this cunt and eat you until you come on my tongue and then keep going.”

“Do it,” Naomi demanded, voice shaking, already close from the relentless curl of those farm-strong fingers. “Right now. Pull them out and put your mouth on me. I want to feel you finally—god, Ingrid, I’m so close already just from this—”

Ingrid’s smile was feral. She kissed Naomi once more, deep and claiming, then slid down her body in a rush of heat and intent. Jeans and underwear yanked lower. Naomi’s thighs shoved wider. The first hot drag of Ingrid’s tongue through her dripping folds made Naomi’s back bow hard off the quilt, a raw cry tearing out of her throat toward the enormous copper moon.

Ingrid moaned like she’d finally been fed. She licked long and slow from entrance to clit, then sealed her mouth over it and sucked, tongue working fast, two fingers shoving back inside and fucking her steady while she ate. Naomi’s hands fisted in Ingrid’s hair and held on. The private bonfire cracked. Distant music floated. And the night was only beginning to open under them.

Ingrid’s tongue dragged another long, filthy stripe through Naomi’s folds, collecting every slick drop before sealing hot and greedy over her clit. She sucked hard, cheeks hollowing, while two rough fingers drove deep and curled, stroking that swollen spot inside with relentless pressure. Naomi’s hips bucked hard off the quilt, thighs clamping around Ingrid’s freckled shoulders. The harvest moon filled her vision, copper and vast, while sparks from the private fire popped and drifted.

“Fuck—Ingrid—your mouth—” Naomi’s voice cracked raw. Fingers speared into Ingrid’s loosened hair, holding her face buried. Every ravenous lick sent white heat slamming through her cunt. Ingrid moaned into the wet heat like she’d been starving for exactly this taste, tongue flicking fast then slow, alternating with deep sucks that pulled Naomi’s clit between soft lips. The fingers thrust harder, wet sounds obscene under the distant fiddle music. Naomi felt herself clench, walls fluttering, the coil in her belly winding tighter than she could stand.

“Come on my tongue,” Ingrid growled against her, voice vibrating straight into Naomi’s core. “I want it. Give it to me. I’ve waited ten fucking years to feel you break like this.” She sucked again, harder, teeth grazing just enough to edge the pleasure into something sharper, fingers slamming in to the knuckles. Naomi’s back arched clean off the wool. Her free hand clawed at the quilt. Interior heat detonated—cunt spasming hard around Ingrid’s fingers, clit pulsing under the relentless tongue. She came screaming, thighs shaking, gushing fresh slick against Ingrid’s mouth. Ingrid didn’t pull away. She drank it, licked through every pulse, fingers still working her through the aftershocks until Naomi sobbed and shoved weakly at her head.

“Enough—fuck—too much—” Naomi gasped, chest heaving, nipples tight and dark in the firelight. Ingrid rose only when Naomi tugged harder, lips shiny, chin wet. She wiped her mouth with the back of one hand and grinned, feral under the moon.

They shifted together onto the thicker center of the blanket. Naomi shoved Ingrid flat onto her back, stripping the remaining jeans and underwear down in one rough yank. Ingrid’s cunt gleamed, swollen and dripping, dark curls matted. Naomi pinned her with her own body weight, knees bracketing hips, and dove. She buried her face between Ingrid’s thighs without preamble, tongue spearing deep into the hot, clenching hole while two fingers shoved inside beside it. Rough. Exact. She curled them hard, pumped fast, and sealed her lips around the hard little clit to suck in time with every thrust.

Ingrid cried out, heels digging into the quilt, hands fisting Naomi’s short city hair. “Yes—god, finger-fuck me—harder—suck it—” Her tits bounced with every jolt of Naomi’s arm. Naomi obeyed, fingers slamming deep, knuckles grinding the entrance, tongue lashing the clit in tight circles while she sucked. Ingrid’s taste flooded her mouth—salt and musk and clean sweat—and Naomi moaned into it, free hand pinning one of Ingrid’s thighs wide open. She felt Ingrid’s walls start to flutter almost immediately, the farm-strong body thrashing under her.

“I’m close already—Naomi—don’t stop—” Ingrid’s voice broke into a raw shout as the orgasm ripped through her. Cunt clamped down on the thrusting fingers, gushing around them, clit throbbing under Naomi’s relentless mouth. Naomi kept going through it, swallowing every pulse, until Ingrid’s thighs trembled and she yanked at Naomi’s shoulders.

They didn’t pause. Bodies slick with sweat now, fire-warmed on one side and night-cooled on the other, they tangled limbs and ground their soaked cunts together. Naomi swung a leg over Ingrid’s hip, lined them up clit to clit, and rolled hard. Slippery heat met slippery heat. They scissored urgently, hips snapping, folds sliding and catching, clits grinding in messy, desperate circles. Sweat-slicked skin slapped. Ingrid’s hands clamped on Naomi’s ass, pulling her tighter, forcing more pressure. Naomi braced on her elbows, staring down into green eyes blown black with lust, and fucked harder against her.

“Feel how wet you made me,” Naomi panted, grinding in short, sharp thrusts that made both their clits spark. “Soaking you. I’m going to come again just from this—your cunt on mine—” Ingrid answered by rolling up to meet every grind, freckled chest heaving, braid completely gone and dark hair stuck to her throat. The friction turned electric. They kissed wetly between gasps, tongues sliding, then broke apart to watch each other’s faces as the double pleasure built. Naomi felt her second orgasm coiling fast, cunt throbbing against Ingrid’s. Ingrid’s nails dug into her hips. They moved faster, sweat dripping between their breasts, the quilt bunching under them, moonlight painting every desperate roll of their hips silver and copper.

Before they tipped over, Naomi twisted. She spun, climbed over Ingrid in reverse, and dropped into mutual sixty-nine. Her dripping cunt settled over Ingrid’s mouth at the same moment she lowered her own face between Ingrid’s thighs again. Instant tongue-fucking. Ingrid’s tongue shoved deep into Naomi’s hole, fucking in and out while her nose ground the clit. Naomi mirrored it exactly—tongue plunging into Ingrid’s still-clenching entrance, lapping the fresh slick, then sealing over the clit to suck hard while two fingers punched back inside. They ate each other ravenously, hips rocking down onto open mouths, muffled moans vibrating straight into swollen flesh.

The dual sensation was overwhelming. Naomi felt every thrust of Ingrid’s tongue while she delivered the same, the wet noises filling the hollow, the fire crackling nearby. Her thighs shook. Ingrid’s nails scored her ass, pulling her down harder onto that hungry mouth. Naomi’s fingers curled inside Ingrid and stroked fast; Ingrid’s did the same. Pressure stacked on both sides—cunts stuffed and licked and sucked at once. Naomi came first again, screaming into Ingrid’s folds as her walls seized around the invading tongue, gushing hard. The contractions triggered Ingrid instantly. Ingrid shattered right after, screaming her own release against Naomi’s cunt, thighs locking around Naomi’s head, body bowing up off the blanket in hard spasms.

They stayed locked like that through the aftershocks, tongues slowing but still moving, drinking each other down, bodies trembling and sweat-slicked under the enormous harvest moon. Breaths ragged. Hearts hammering. The private fire burned lower. Distant festival sounds floated, oblivious. Naomi finally lifted her head just enough to press an open-mouthed kiss to Ingrid’s inner thigh, tasting salt and her own spit mixed with Ingrid’s come. Ingrid’s hands stroked lazily up her back, possessive.

But the need hadn’t burned out. It only banked hotter. Ingrid’s fingers still rested inside her, twitching. Naomi’s tongue still traced the swollen outer lips, already craving the next round. Ingrid’s voice came rough and low against her thigh: “Not finished. Not even close. I still need your strap. I still need to fuck you until the moon sets.” Naomi shuddered, cunt clenching around those buried fingers again, and knew the night had hours left to ruin them both.

Naomi’s fingers were still buried inside Ingrid when the words landed. The strap. Heat punched through her again, fresh and vicious. She pulled free with a wet sound that made Ingrid whimper, then scrambled for the camera bag she’d dropped at the edge of the quilt. The harness was already packed—black leather, the thick silicone cock she’d bought months ago and never dared use with anyone else. She had dreamed of this exact moment every lonely night in the city.

Ingrid watched, chest heaving, green eyes locked on the toy as Naomi stepped into the straps and cinched them tight around her hips. The base pressed hard against her own swollen clit. She stroked a palmful of spit down the shaft, then crawled back between Ingrid’s spread thighs.

“Tell me again,” Naomi said, voice raw.

“I want you to fuck me with it,” Ingrid answered without hesitation, reaching down to guide the head to her entrance. “Hard. Deep. Until I can’t think about anything except how full you make me. Yes—please—now.”

Naomi pushed in on one long, slow thrust. Ingrid’s cunt stretched around the thick shaft, greedy and slick from everything that had already soaked her. The stretch dragged a broken moan out of both of them. Naomi bottomed out, the base grinding her clit, and held still for three heartbeats so Ingrid could feel every inch. Then she started to move—deep, rolling strokes that made Ingrid’s tits bounce and her freckled throat arch.

They fucked like the moon was counting down. Naomi braced on her forearms, hips snapping, the slap of skin and the wet suck of Ingrid’s cunt filling the hollow. Ingrid locked her legs around Naomi’s waist and pulled her deeper, heels digging into her ass. Every thrust dragged the harness against Naomi’s clit until she was shaking, already close again. She reached down, thumbed Ingrid’s swollen bud in tight circles timed to the pistoning cock.

“Look at me,” Naomi demanded. Ingrid’s eyes snapped open, glassy, pupils blown. “I want to watch you come on my strap.”

Ingrid’s walls fluttered hard. She came with a raw shout, cunt clamping and pulsing around the toy, gushing fresh slick down Naomi’s thighs. Naomi fucked her straight through it, chasing her own edge, and spilled a second later with a guttural groan, grinding the base against herself until white sparks exploded behind her eyes.

They didn’t stop. Naomi pulled out only long enough to flip Ingrid onto her hands and knees facing the dying fire. She slammed back in from behind, one hand fisted in Ingrid’s loose dark hair, the other reaching around to work her clit. The new angle let the cock drag over every sensitive ridge. Ingrid shoved back to meet every thrust, dirty talk spilling from her mouth in broken fragments—how full she felt, how she’d finger herself on the reserve thinking of this cock splitting her open, how she wanted Naomi’s come still dripping out of her when she boarded the plane tomorrow.

Naomi reached under, found Ingrid’s swinging tits, pinched both nipples hard. Ingrid shattered again, thighs quaking, face pressed into the quilt. The orgasm ripped through her so violently she nearly collapsed. Naomi followed, hips stuttering, another climax punched out of her by the relentless pressure of the harness.

They collapsed onto their sides, still joined, sweaty and trembling. Naomi eased the cock free, unbuckled the straps with shaking fingers, and tossed the whole harness aside. The fire had burned down to glowing coals. The harvest moon hung lower now, copper bleeding into deeper red. Distant festival music had faded to nothing; only the soft pop of embers and their ragged breathing remained.

Ingrid turned, still shaking from the last aftershocks. She climbed over Naomi, straddled her face one final time, and lowered herself slowly. Naomi opened her mouth willingly, tongue flat and ready. Ingrid settled her soaked, swollen folds against it and began to ride—slow, deliberate rolls of her hips, grinding her clit over Naomi’s tongue, staring straight down into her eyes the entire time. Firelight flickered across Ingrid’s freckled chest. Sweat-slicked hair stuck to her throat. Naomi gripped her ass and held her there, licking deep, sucking, tasting every fresh pulse of slick that dripped onto her tongue.

Ingrid never looked away. Her hands braced on Naomi’s bare stomach. The rolls of her hips stayed measured, almost reverent, even as pleasure built again in tight, unavoidable coils. Naomi felt every flutter, every tiny clench. She curled her tongue and fucked it up into Ingrid’s hole in time with the grind. Ingrid’s thighs began to shake harder. Her breath hitched. Still she kept the slow pace, eyes locked, as if she were branding the sight of Naomi beneath her into permanent memory.

The climax took her in long, shuddering waves. Ingrid’s cunt spasmed against Naomi’s mouth; a soft, broken cry tore out of her. She kept rolling through it, riding every pulse, until the last tremor left her boneless. Only then did she lift off, crawl down Naomi’s body, and kiss her deeply—open-mouthed, filthy, tasting herself on Naomi’s tongue and lips. The kiss lingered, tender and claiming at once.

When they finally broke apart, Ingrid rested her forehead against Naomi’s and whispered, voice rough with sex and something quieter, “I’m going to carry the memory of this perfect harvest night with me for the next two years. Every full moon on the reserve I’ll close my eyes and feel your tongue again, your strap, the way you looked at me while I came on your face. You’re the last taste I’ll ever need.”

Naomi’s arms tightened around her. The coals popped once more. Moonlight silvered the edge of Ingrid’s cheek.

Ingrid smiled, small and fierce, and asked the only question left that mattered: “Will you still be wet for me when I come home?”