Can I Kiss You?

London River's stretched out on her bed, nose buried in a book, when Jill Kassidy slips in, looking nervous. She climbs onto the mattress and asks if London meant it when she said Jill could talk about anything. London sits up fast, eyebrows knit, fully dialed in. Of course. Spill it. Jill's cheeks go pink. She had her first date with a girl, she says, but she froze at the door when the goodnight kiss came around. Never kissed anyone, period. That's why she's here now, red-faced, asking her step-mom to teach her. London blinks hard, caught off guard, but those big pleading eyes do their work. Who else is gonna give the poor girl the pointers? She leans in, presses a careful, feather-light kiss to Jill's mouth and starts giving orders—soft touches to the face, the neck. The simple lesson lasts about three seconds before they both dive in harder, lips parting, tongues sliding, London’s hands landing firm on Jill’s hips to yank her closer. When Jill finally pulls away, eyes glassy, London doesn’t want her to go. Not yet. She hasn’t covered the next parts yet. So she guides Jill’s hands to her tits, shows her how to squeeze, how to suck—then drops back on the sheets, spreads her legs, and makes sure Jill gets the next lesson down cold: exactly how to eat pussy right.