Messy

But of course, things are never easy.

We're drunk now—drunk and high beyond reason. The edges of everything are soft, glowing. The music inside Tara's apartment is a pulse that lives in the floorboards, in our veins. My eyes are hazy, sliding in and out of focus. I can't see straight, and I don't care. That's the point.

The kitchen is thick with people, with laughter, with bodies pressed too close and voices raised over the bass. We're all talking at once, conversations bleeding into each other like spilled drinks. I can't follow any of it. It's all just heat and noise.

I pull out another joint. My hands are steady from muscle memory alone. I light it and let the smoke fill my lungs, trying to anchor myself.

We fall into a loose circle—me, Kira to my left, then Freddi, then Tara, and Stefani to my right. Others weave around us like shadows, grabbing drinks, leaning in for a laugh or a hit, then disappearing again into the crowd. The joint starts making its way around.

Kira's talking Tara's ear off about something, waving her hands for emphasis. Freddi is grinning, nodding along. Tara's already laughing, her face red from tequila and joy.

And me? I make the mistake of looking to my right.

Stefani meets my gaze like she never left it.

Her eyes are low-lidded, heavy with something thick—heat or hate or hunger or all three. She takes the joint from Tara's fingers, inhales, then shifts to face me fully. Her free hand comes up, soft and sudden, grabbing my face. Her thumb brushes my cheekbone. I blink, too stunned to flinch.

Then she leans in and exhales the smoke directly into my mouth.

It curls between our lips, warm and tasting faintly of citrus and sin.

I smirk.

I can't help it.

Because she's standing there in a tiny black skirt that barely qualifies as clothing, and a lace bra that leaves nothing to the imagination. Her skin is glowing, flushed and flawless, the soft light catching the edges of her collarbone and the swell of her chest. Her hair's a little messy, like she's danced too hard or fought too much. Either way, it suits her.

I can't stop my eyes from dropping, just for a second, taking her in. I'm human.

"Don't stare," she whispers, just for me.

The sound coils in my gut.

I take the joint from her fingers and finish it off, letting the last bit of smoke settle in my throat like a secret.

Tara suddenly claps her hands and shouts over the music, "Okay! Club time!"

It's 1 a.m. The floor is sticky. The walls are buzzing. The tequila's hit all of us in waves.

We shuffle out of the apartment in a mess of limbs and laughter and final sips of drinks.

Outside, the summer air is thick and warm, humming with city life. Someone starts a playlist on their phone, and we stumble toward the club in a pack, our shadows long on the pavement.

Kira's close to me, our hips brushing. I reach out and wrap my arm around her shoulders without thinking, and she loops hers around my waist like it's natural. Like we've done it a hundred times.

She leans her head against mine for just a second, smiling as we walk.

Behind us, I can hear Stefani's footsteps. But I don't turn around.

We push our way inside the club, swallowed by the heat and lights and sound. Bodies pack into the space like smoke in a tight room—fast, thick, pulsing. Music hits like a wave to the chest, a rhythmic thump that shakes the floor and crawls up my legs, spreading everywhere. It's orgasmic, dirty, alive.

Kira and I separate almost immediately, pulled by the crowd, and it doesn't matter. That's how these nights go. Her silhouette fades into a swirl of color and movement, her pink shirt catching the strobes as she spins into someone else's arms. She's laughing. Tossing her head back. Free. I'm glad for her.

I don't care.

Not right now.

Because I'm moving too. Dancing with whoever's nearest—faces I don't know, bodies I barely see. A blur of breath and sweat and flashing lights. The music drowns thought, and that's the point. I let it.

I feel hands on me. A touch that lingers longer than a stranger's would. A thumb dragging across the bare skin of my shoulder. Down my side. Sweeping across the front of my stomach. It's possessive. Familiar. I turn around, already knowing.

Stefani.

She's looking up at me, hair wild, pupils blown, lips parted like she's forgotten how to breathe without touching me.

She doesn't say anything. She just steps forward and slides her arms around my neck like it's the only place her hands want to be. Her body presses into mine, her chest against my ribs, skin on skin. She's warm, flushed. The air between us is thin, hot.

I glance around. No one notices. No one cares.

Kira's across the room, dancing with some guy. Their hips moving in rhythm, her hand on his chest. I feel something, maybe. Jealousy? Resentment? Relief? I blink it away.

Tara and Freddi are wrapped around each other nearby, lost in their own world.

It's just Stefani and me.

Her fingers slide into my hair, gripping the back of my neck, gently but firm. She leans in, bringing my ear to her lips. Her breath is sticky sweet from whatever she drank last.

"You are so sexy," she whispers.

It drips into me like honey laced with venom.

I don't pull away. Not yet.

I feel her breast through my top—her lace bra doing nothing to keep the heat from searing through both of us. It's intentional. Everything with her always is. My hands find her hips before I can think twice, fingers digging in. She moans in my ear, low and breathy, like the sound belongs only to me.

"Can't get enough?" I ask, my voice slick with something between a dare and a surrender.

She bites down on a smile, her lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Don't make me get on my knees and beg."

That does it.

I grab her by the arm, firm, possessive. She doesn't flinch—if anything, she leans into the grip. I don't say a word as I pull her through the crowd. Bodies shift. Music distorts. Lights blur. She follows without hesitation, like this has already happened in her head a thousand times.

We make it to the back hallway—dim, sticky, pulsing with bass. I find the nearest bathroom and shove the door open, pulling her in behind me. It slams shut, the lock clicks, and we're alone.

No more music. Just our breathing. Heavy. Unsteady.

I turn to her, and she's already climbing onto the sink, legs parted, waiting. A flash of skin. That short skirt riding higher. The way she looks at me—hungry, glassy-eyed, fucked up in all the ways I know too well—it's a mirror.

I step between her thighs, my hands on her knees, then sliding up.

The air in the bathroom is thick with the scent of her perfume—something dark and sweet, like vanilla and sin. The flickering fluorescent light casts shadows across her face, sharpening the curve of her lips, the flutter of her lashes as she watches me. 

My fingers trail higher, beneath the hem of that ridiculously short skirt. The fabric is soft, but the skin beneath is softer. Stefani exhales sharply when I reach the lace edge of her panties, my nails scraping just enough to make her hips jerk. 

"You're already wet," I murmur, not bothering to hide the satisfaction in my voice. 

She tilts her head back, baring her throat. "And whose fault is that?" 

I press my thumb against the damp lace, and she gasps. The sound is delicious—raw and unfiltered. I could get drunk on it. 

"Say it," I demand, my voice rough. 

Her breath hitches. "Yours." 

I smile, slow and dangerous. "Good girl." 

Her thighs tremble around my hips, but she doesn't look away. She never does. That's what I love about her—the defiance, the way she burns even when I'm the one holding the match. 

I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You want me to make you come right here? Against this filthy sink, where anyone could walk in?" 

She shudders, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter. "Yes." 

I pull back just enough to see her face. "Then beg." 

Her eyes darken, lips parting—but before she can speak, a sharp knock rattles the door. 

"Occupied!" I snap, not breaking eye contact with Stefani. 

Whoever it is doesn't leave. Another knock, louder this time. 

Stefani's fingers tighten on my waist, her nails scratching my shoulders enough to burn. "Ignore them," she whispers. 

I smirk. "Oh, I plan to." 

My hand slips beneath the lace, and her breath catches. The knock comes again, but it's drowned out by the sharp, desperate sound of her moan as my fingers slip down her slick clit and dip inside her.

"Only one person at a time!" Yells the person I think sounds like security.

"This won't go over well with the tabloids." I say. I dip my fingers into her deeper and she buckles. I retract them slowly and bring them to her mouth. "Taste how wet you are for me baby."

Something flickers in her eyes as she places her warm tongue on my fingers. Moaning as she licks up and down. We haven't kissed and I don't plan to.

She exhales like it hurts. I lift her off the sink, steadying her wobbly legs, and we pull the door open. The guard eyes us, unimpressed, but I don't say a word. We push past him and rejoin the heat of the club.

The music hits like a wall. Bodies, smoke, color. It's dizzying. Before we're completely swallowed by the crowd again, my phone buzzes in my back pocket.

I pull it out.

Kira."Heading out. Come see me later if you want."

I stare at it for a moment too long. Then I type back:

Maybe.

I don't give myself time to think about what that means.

Stefani grabs my wrist, stopping me. Her voice is low, too soft for the noise around us.

"Take me home," she says.

It doesn't feel like a question. I don't know if it's a plea or a demand, but I can't process any of it right now. My body is buzzing from the weed, the drinks, her touch, the everything of tonight.

"Casual," I say flatly. Just a reminder. To her or to me, I'm not sure.

She nods.

Outside, the air hits us like a slap. Hot and thick. A cab pulls up. I toss a crumpled bill at the driver and pull her into the back seat with me. Her thigh presses against mine. She doesn't speak. Neither do I.

When we get to my building, I don't wait for change. I just shove the door open, grab her wrist, and we stumble out. I don't even look at her face. I'm too far gone.

Inside, in the hallway, I lift her. She wraps around me instantly—arms, legs, breath hitching. She's light. Familiar. Dangerous. Her breasts crush into my chest, and even though I tell myself I don't want to kiss her—

I do.

My lips move to hers like muscle memory. Tequila. Weed. Heat. She moans into my mouth like she wants the whole building to know she's mine. But she isn't. Not really. Not anymore.

I fumble with the keys, cursing, practically slamming her against the wall in my haste. The lock finally gives, and I shove the door open, her still clinging to me like a curse I never learned how to shake.

Inside. The door slams. My apartment is dark and pulsing with leftover heat from the day. She doesn't let go.

I carry her to the kitchen island, sit her down like I've done a hundred times before. Her legs are still locked around me. Her mouth still trying to write apologies in the shape of lust.

Her bra is flimsy—black lace, barely there, more suggestion than restraint. I don't bother with the clasp. My fingers curl into the fabric at the center, and with one sharp tug, it rips free from her body. 

Stefani gasps, her back arching as the lace bites into her skin before giving way. Red welts bloom instantly across her chest, the delicate marks standing out against her flushed skin. I drag my fingertips over them, watching her shiver. 

"You like that?" I murmur, pressing down just enough to make her breath hitch. "Knowing everyone will see these tomorrow? Knowing they'll look at you and know someone marked you up?" 

She whimpers, her hips shifting restlessly beneath me. 

I tighten my grip on her waist. "Words, Stefani." 

Her fingers dig into my shoulders, blunt nails threatening to leave their own marks. "Yes. I like it." 

"Good." My hands slide down, gripping the waistband of her skirt. "Now tell me what you want." 

Her pupils are blown wide, lips parted. "More"

That's all I need. 

The skirt tears just as easily, the fabric splitting under my hands. Her panties follow—one sharp pull, and they're nothing but ruined lace in my fist. She's bare beneath me now, sprawled across the cold marble of the kitchen island, her skin gleaming under the harsh overhead light. 

I don't waste time. My own clothes come off in quick, impatient movements—top tossed aside, jeans shoved down, until there's nothing between us but heat and hunger. 

Stefani exhales like it hurts, her body trembling as she shifts against the counter. The welts stand out starkly, a map of my claim on her. I run my hands over them again, possessive, before gripping her hips and yanking her to the very edge of the island. 

She's open, exposed, aching. I can see how wet she is, how much she wants this. Wants me. "Look at you," I say, voice rough. "Laid out like a fucking feast." 

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her fingers clutching at the edge of the counter like she's afraid she'll float away if she doesn't hold on. 

I don't make her wait. 

One hand pins her hip down. The other slides between her thighs, fingers pressing against her clit. She jerks, a broken noise tearing from her throat. 

"Lena—" she cries

I circle once, twice, relentless. "You said more" I remind her. "So take it." 

Her head falls back, her body bowing off the counter as I work her over with ruthless precision. She's close already—I can feel it in the way her thighs tense, the way her breath comes in sharp, desperate gasps. 

But I'm not done with her yet. 

Just as she's about to tip over the edge, I pull my hand away. 

Her eyes fly open, dazed and furious. "No—"

I smirk. "Beg." 

She glares, but her body betrays her, hips lifting in silent plea. 

I raise an eyebrow. "*Stefani.*" 

A beat. Then— 

"Please-" she says.

I grip her waist and drag her to the edge of the counter, her ass barely balanced on the ledge. She obeys without hesitation, planting her feet on the granite and arching up toward me. The sight of her like this—spread open, breath ragged, completely at my mercy—makes my pulse throb. 

I step between her thighs, my hands sliding up to her ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. "Look at you," I murmur, dragging my gaze over her flushed skin. "So fucking wet for me. Dripping." 

She shivers, her fingers scratching my neck . "Lena—" 

I tilt my head, feigning innocence. "What do you want, Stefani?" 

Her lips part, but no words come out—just a shaky exhale. I love this part. The moment she has to admit it, to voice the hunger she can't control. 

I lean in, my breath hot against her ear. "Use your words, baby. Or do I need to walk away?" 

Her nails dig into my shoulders. "No—" 

"Then tell me." 

She swallows, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I want your mouth." 

A thrill races through me. "Where?" 

Her hips lift, pressing against nothing, seeking friction. "On me. Please." 

I hum, trailing my lips down her neck, over her collarbone, between her breasts. I take my time, savoring the way her body trembles, the way her breath comes in short, uneven gasps. 

When I finally drop to my knees, her thighs fall open wider, an unspoken invitation. 

And then—I taste her. 

Her back arches off the counter, a broken cry tearing from her throat as my tongue drags slow and firm over her clit. She's so fucking responsive, every flick, every suck pulling another ragged sound from her lips. 

"Fuck—" Her hands tangle in my hair, not pushing, just holding on like I'm the only thing keeping her grounded. 

I hook one of her legs over my shoulder, tilting her hips up to me, and dive deeper. She's salt and sweetness, heat and desperation, and I could drown in her. 

Her thighs start to shake. "I'm close—" 

I pull back just enough to murmur against her skin, "Not yet." 

She whimpers, her hips jerking, but I hold her down with one firm hand on her stomach. "You don't come until I say so." 

Her eyes lock onto mine, wide and pleading. 

I smile. "Good girls wait." 

Her thighs quiver around my head, her body taut as a bowstring. I can *feel* how close she is—the way her muscles clench, the way her breath comes in sharp, fractured gasps. But I don't let her tip over. Not yet. 

Instead, I slow down, dragging my tongue in lazy circles, savoring the way her hips jerk helplessly against my mouth. 

"Lena" Her voice is a wrecked whisper, fingers tightening in my hair. "Please"

I pull back just enough to glance up at her. Her lips are parted, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with desperation. She looks ruined already, and I haven't even let her come yet. 

"Please what?" I murmur, blowing a cool breath over her wetness. She shudders violently. 

"Please let me come," she whimpers. 

I tilt my head, considering. "Hmm. I don't know. You've been so impatient tonight." 

She lets out a frustrated groan, her hips lifting off the counter. "I'll be good—" 

I raise an eyebrow. "Prove it." 

Her breath hitches, but she forces herself still, her thighs trembling with the effort. 

I reward her with a slow, filthy lick, from her entrance all the way up to her clit. She whines, her fingers flexing in my hair, but she doesn't move. 

"Good girl," I purr, before diving back in. 

This time, I don't hold back. My tongue flicks over her clit in quick, relentless strokes, my fingers digging into her hips to keep her in place. She's so close—her whole body tensing, her breath coming in short, frantic pants— 

And then I stop. 

Her cry is almost angry. "Fuck—" 

I smirk up at her. "You really thought I'd let you off that easy?" 

She glares, but there's no real heat in it—just raw, aching need. 

I stand, trailing my fingers up her inner thighs, watching her squirm. "You want to come?" 

She nods, biting her lip. 

I lean in, my lips brushing hers. "Then beg like you mean it." 

Her breath shudders out. "Please," she whispers, her voice breaking. "Please, Lena, I need it—I need to come so bad—" 

I press a kiss to her jaw. "Louder." 

Her nails scrape down my back. "Fuck, please—I can't take it anymore, I need you to let me come—" 

I hum, feigning thoughtfulness. "Hmm."

She groans, her head falling back.

Before she can retort, I slide two fingers inside her,

Her back arches off the counter, a broken scream tearing from her throat as I curl my fingers, pressing against that sweet spot deep inside her. I don't give her a second to adjust—just fuck her with my hand, fast and rough, my thumb circling her clit in tight, unforgiving strokes. 

She cums violently. her whole body seizing, her thighs clamping around my wrist as she sobs my name. But I don't stop. 

"Again," I growl, twisting my fingers inside her. 

She chokes on a gasp, her hips jerking as another wave crashes over her. Her nails rake down my arms, her body trembling uncontrollably. I put my mouth onto her clit and suck relentlessly. she shatters a second time and I keep going until she screams in pain and pleasure.

Only then do I slow, easing her through it with gentle strokes until she's limp against the counter, her chest heaving, her skin slick with sweat. 

I pull my fingers free, bringing them to my lips and sucking them clean, never breaking eye contact. 

She watches me, dazed, her lips parted. 

I lean in, brushing my mouth against hers. "You taste like you're made for me."

Her arms wrap around me as I carry her to the couch. She falls limp still heaving. I set her down slowly. She sighs—deep and low—almost content. I catch myself staring at her bare skin, glowing faintly under the city's orange haze sneaking through my windows.

I grab a throw blanket from the armchair, toss it over her body, careful not to linger too long. She's still breathing hard, but she doesn't open her eyes.

She won't follow me. Not tonight.

I leave her there. Naked. Spent. Drunk on the idea of me, maybe.

I walk to my bedroom, close the door, and turn the lock with a soft click that sounds louder than it should.

This time, I don't wait for her to follow.

⸻

Sleep comes fast, my limbs leaden with exhaustion and emptiness. But it doesn't last.

I jolt awake around 4 a.m., chest tight, something off in the stillness of my room. My phone buzzes on the floor near the bed, screen flashing.

I grab it. Don't even check the name before I answer.

"Kira?" I say, voice rough, still half-asleep.

"Hey," she whispers. "Can you come over?"

Her voice is soft, quiet. Almost shy.

I don't even hesitate.

"Yeah," I murmur. "I'm on my way."

I hang up and move quickly, careful not to think too hard. I throw on the nearest clothes—one of my tanks, a pair of jeans that barely button. Shoes in hand, I tiptoe through the hallway, each creak of the old floorboards loud enough to feel accusatory.

I almost make it to the door.

Then—her voice behind me. Quiet. Dry. Icy.

"Where are you going?"

I don't turn around.

"Out," I say.

The knob turns easily beneath my hand. I don't wait for her to speak again. I don't care to see the look on her face. I leave.

Let her wonder what it means. Let her feel it.

Let her lie in the silence she's always given me.