Megosztott hang

The highway’s rhythm became a lullaby to the growing heat in the back seat. Emma’s hand, resting on Morgan’s thigh, grew bolder. Her fingers left the smooth leather of the belt and crept higher, tracing the hem of Morgan’s skirt. Morgan let out a soft, deliberate sigh, shifting to give Emma better access. “Your hands are so sure,” she murmured, her own fingers finding the wide, studded belt around Emma’s waist. She traced the cold metal of the buckle, then the hard leather. “I’ve been thinking a