horny plans

Evening settles in the way the best ones do now—slow, warm, and already half on top of each other.

Avatar plays in the background, mostly ignored. You are stretched along the couch with Sandra tucked against your side, one of her legs thrown over yours, your hand idly tracing the curve of her hip. Hers is doing the same to your chest, then lower, then back again. Frequent, light kisses interrupt whatever is happening on screen: her mouth against your jaw, yours against her temple, another longer one when a commercial gives you an excuse. It is not building toward anything frantic. It is just the two of you molesting each other because you can.

You bring it up between one of those kisses.

“We should go out tomorrow. An actual date. We kind of did this whole thing in the wrong order anyway. Might as well start with the basics.”

Sandra makes a small, reluctant sound and burrows closer instead of answering at first. The idea of leaving the house—of putting on real clothes, of being around people who are not you—clearly does not appeal. The constant cuddling, the private bubble, the ability to stay half-naked and touching without thinking about it has become its own addiction.

“Do we have to?”
she mumbles against your collarbone.
“People are overrated. The couch is right here.”

You let that sit for a second, then add the suggestion you already know will land.

“Sex outside isn’t unthinkable. If the date goes that way.”

Sandra goes still.

You feel the exact change in her breathing, the way her fingers tighten on your chest, the little shift of her hips against your thigh. The danger kink she showed in the alley—and under the blanket during the movie, and on the rooftop—wakes up immediately. Her imagination is already running. A quiet public place. The risk of being seen. Your hands on her where someone could walk by. She does not say any of that out loud. She just presses her face into your neck and lets out a low, helpless sound that is half protest and half yes.

“…That’s cheating,”
she mutters, already sounding wetter than she was ten seconds ago.
“You can’t just dangle that and expect me to be responsible about leaving the house.”

She is imagining it. You can tell. And you still cannot tell whether the danger she likes is the idea of getting caught, or the idea of you being the one who puts her in that position. Possibly both. Possibly she does not know either.

Her hand slides lower again, less idle this time, and Avatar keeps playing for an audience that is no longer watching.