Showing Her A Few Steps

Zariah’s moving in slow circles around the living room, arms out like there’s a guy between them, when the door clicks and Dee steps in. “You’re stiff as a board,” Dee says, smirk already in place. She comes right up behind Zariah, one hand to the small of her back, the other guiding her wrist. Zariah swallows, keeps her voice steady. “Thanks. I suck at this.” They set the box fan on low so it sounds like music and the waltz begins—step-drag together, turn, breathe. With every slide of Dee’s thigh between her legs the friction starts to hum, both of them aware, both pretending not to notice. The next pivot presses Zariah’s chest flush to Dee’s—nipples tight against the thin tank—and the rhythm stutters. Fingers grip harder. Eyes lock. The music in their heads just quits. “One time,” Zariah mutters, voice low. Dee answers by sliding her hand lower, cupping ass like a dare. They kiss wet, open-mouthed, tasting each other quick and reckless. Dee backs them into the couch without breaking contact, shoves Zariah’s skirt up, palm skating over damp lace. Fingers hook the crotch aside, find slick heat, push in without mercy. Zariah’s hips jerk, she rides the curl of Dee’s knuckles, moaning louder each time knuckles press her clit. Shoes hit the floor, clothes yanked half-off, and Dee’s straddling her, grinding down while Zariah bucks up, slick on slick. They grind like they’re racing time, sweat sticking, panting curses. When they finally come it’s hard and shaking—clenching, hips stuttering, mouths biting down on each other’s necks to muffle the noise. Seconds later they’re flat on their backs, breathing like sprinters, clothes twisted every which way. Zariah laughs first, half embarrassed, half cocky. “Guess that’s out of our system,” she says. Dee just drags a finger through the mess on her stomach, sucks it clean, and answers, “For now.”