(Deena is in collage. They’re also in New York. Also, the murders never happened because I could never do that to her.)

Deena was kissing along your neck- up to your mouth. The kisses were hot, wet, and left little smudges of lipstick on your neck.

Your back was arched, hands running all over her body. Your hands were on her chest, her waist, her back, her hair.

Her hand was working between your thighs, her lips connecting with yours as you began to writhe.

She kissed you as your mouth parented in a moan, your right hand grabbing at the skin of her back and your left hand squeezing her breast.

As she watched you climax, her breath stopped.

You looked like a goddess, skin glistening, lips shining and kiss-bitten, eyes screwing closed.

The hand that was on her breast left it and grabbed at her duvet, the hand that was on her back clawing at her and leaving red marks.

You loved her apartment- specifically her bedroom. It had Polaroids and string lights, her drum kit that the neighbours hated, and her bed- which you loved most of all.

Her bed had a navy quilt with various pictures of the sun, as well as stars and the moon in all its phases. Her sheets were plaid- red, green, and blue. Her pillowcases were white with thin grey stripes, her bed-frame wrought iron.

Her bed was pushed up against the wall with the window that led to the fire escape, and she had a pride flag that she was using as a curtain.

Your head hit those striped pillows as you came down from your orgasm, your hands falling from her body as your breath began to even up.

You looked up at her, pushing your unbound hair out of your face, and pulling her into a kiss by her curls.