Ding-dong!

"Oh, shit—" muttered you, shoulders jerking upwards.

"Pizza's here!" bubbled up with Cate's soft chuckles, a melody of mirth. Parroted "Go, go, go!" from the blonde galvanized your folded legs to bunt off the covers straight into action.

Distant words "On it!" departed into ambient noise when airy crunches ensued with each chew. Once you're a hand's reach from gaping the door, only does she turn away.

And her smile fades.

It diminished to a tight-lip seal, determined to muffle repetitious crunches of the corn kernels. Greasy digits hooked a fistful of popcorn and dipped it to her mouth, patterning the dim domain of the shared dorm with crack! pop! But, within her? Thump-thump-thump rattled her crown and down to her hooves.

God, why did you have to sit so close?

The scenic action from the screen does little for dwindling the severity of her flame. Twain girls engrossed in the bonding of their lips. Pasting chest-to-chest. Balling strands with every fierce grope.

Unholy sounds from those close-up gaped mouth shots swelled her desire to a wildfire.

And that desire, its sorcery, steered the moving pictures into acquainted figures. Lips attacking hers belonged to yours. No man imprinted the bed. No vicious masculine grips strangled her waist.

Only equal parts care and grace of feminity did.

"If only you were a boy..."

"What'd I miss?" Inquiry from behind teared her gaze far from the television's intimate passion. A fucking miracle her lightning-speed turning didn't divorce the muscles on her neck.

Streams of saliva gulped, drowning previous filthy yearning directed to her friend. A girl. Not for hers to take. "Oh, uh..."

Faintly buttered hands strain to hoist the blanket to her chest after you've taken a homely spot on the couch and plopped the pizza box on the sturdy table. As if the mere fabric can deaden the drumming on her chest. "Just—"

"Things have taken a turn," stumbled she, grasping for the right straws. "Like... really intense."

Lord hopes you didn't hear shit.