Club's backlot

We slip through the crowd like ghosts. She leads. I follow. Not even a glance back at Monica. My head’s too fogged up with heat and adrenaline and... her.

The music dulls as we move toward the side of the club, past some velvet rope and a "Staff Only" door. A bouncer doesn’t even blink—just lets us through like we belong there. Maybe she does, who knows.

We pass through a narrow hallway, lined with cleaning supplies and crates of liquor. Then a metal door creaks open.

Cool night air hits me in the face as we step outside.

We’re in an alley. It’s surprisingly clean for a club’s backlot and distant enough from the main street that it feels quiet. Private.

Too quiet.

She doesn’t say a word. Just glances back, smirking like she already knows exactly what I’m thinking.

I don't. Not really.

I just know my heart’s trying to break out of my chest.

I’m standing like an idiot, trying to act normal. My hands fidget with my skirt for no reason.

“You’ve never kissed a woman before, have you?” she says, matter-of-fact, while stepping right into my space.

“Is it that obvious?” I try to laugh, but my throat’s dry. “Was I that bad?”

“No.” She brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “You were perfect. Just... surprised.”

Yeah. You could say that. Because this isn’t just curiosity. This isn’t drunk-girl-at-a-party kissing. This is something deeper. Heavier. I’ve been with a few guys. Alright, maybe a lot of them. I’ve been in love, obsessed, crushed, disappointed—everything. But none of them ever made me feel like this.

Like I was falling without moving. Like I wanted someone to own me and I didn’t even know why.

I don’t say any of that out loud. Obviously. But I think she hears it anyway.

“Do you want to stop?” she asks as she comes even closer.

“No,” I answer before I even process the question.

She doesn’t smile this time. Just leans in and kisses me again.

And it’s... holy shit.

There’s nothing hesitant now. Her mouth is insistent, open, hungry. And mine matches it. I don’t even think—just react. Her tongue brushes mine, her lips capture my bottom one and tug, and my knees nearly buckle.

She walks me back against the wall, kissing me the entire way. And I pull her with me like I desperately need her body against mine. Because I do.

Her hands are on my waist, my sides, my chest. She knows exactly where to touch. Not aggressive. Just confident. And that’s what’s killing me. The way she moves like she’s done this a hundred times with me.

I let my hands run over her back, her thighs, her hips, her shoulders. She's toned and soft in all the right places, firm where it matters. I don’t know who moans first, but I know I do it louder. My legs part a little without thinking. Her thigh slides between them.

She smiles against my mouth.

“You’re quite sensitive,” she says.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” I manage to say back.

She laughs—low and warm.

And then her lips trail down my jaw, along my neck. I tilt my head without thinking, giving her more room, more access, like some instinct deep in me just lit up.

“I’ve never felt this way,” I admit, breathless. “About anyone. Not even close.”

She doesn’t answer.

She just kisses lower.

Her lips brush the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. Her tongue flicks once. And my whole body arches.

It’s sensual and sexual, I'm so turned on. But there's also... something else. Something in the way she’s holding me. Controlling the pace, the rhythm, my entire body. And I’m letting her.

Hell, I want her to.

And maybe that should scare me. Maybe it would, if I wasn’t so far gone.

“Let go,” she whispers against my skin. “You’re already mine.”

And the worst part?

I want to be.