Stood Up By Her Husband

India steps into the hotel room with a little bounce in her step, already thinking about getting naked. Anniversary night, big deal—she scatters chocolates on the sheets and sticks the roses in a glass like she owns the place. Clock’s ticking, husband’s due any minute, so she slides out of her dress and gets comfortable. Minutes drag. Text bubbles never pop up. Again. She’s pissed and lonely, so she grabs the phone and calls Reagan. Twenty minutes later there’s a knock, and Reagan takes one look at the untouched candy and wilting flowers, lips tight. India tries a breezy shrug, but Reagan cuts right through it, pulling her into a hug that lingers. Talk spills out—India’s done swallowing excuses, done pretending she isn’t curious about Reagan’s body too. Reagan’s eyebrows shoot up, caught off guard, then soften when she sees India isn’t just blowing smoke. No husband? Fine. They’ll fuck like the anniversary never mattered. India yanks Reagan’s top up and sucks her nipples until Reagan’s breathing stutters, then drops lower, tongue working between Reagan’s thighs like she’s starving. Reagan moans, grabs India’s hair, and flips her onto the sheets so she can return every lick and grind. Sweat-slick and gasping, they ride each other until the only thing either of them remembers is skin and heat and the fact that friends this good never waste an empty hotel room.