Soaked

The dark-haired guy's hands slide up my thighs as I settle deeper onto his lap. The pasties are barely there — just thin circles of adhesive and fringe — and the triangle piece between my legs has shifted with the movement, leaving the edges of my slick flesh exposed to the humid air of the room.

I feel the wetness pooling between my thighs, the latex triangle clinging to me like it's trying to hold back a tide. The guys can see it — the glisten of it catching the dim light, the way my hips roll against the dark-haired guy's boxers with each deliberate grind. He lets out a low groan, his fingers digging into the soft skin of my waist.

"Damn, you're soaked," he mutters, his voice rough with drink. "And you're just... letting us see all of it."

I tilt my head back, letting my throat bare to the ceiling, and I laugh — a low, breathy sound that's half nerves and half something else entirely. My fingers find his shoulders, gripping them for balance as I shift my weight, letting my hips grind harder against his lap.

"You called me a slut," I murmur, looking down at him through half-lidded eyes. "Sluts don't hide things. They show exactly what they've got."

Behind me, I hear the muscular guy let out a low whistle. The bachelor is leaning forward on the couch, his forgotten beer dripping onto the floor. The quiet guy in the corner has finally set his bottle down, his eyes dark and locked on me.

And Joe is still out cold on the floor, snoring softly, missing all of it.

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