The back of the Uber is too small for how close Christina is sitting.

You can still taste tequila on her mouth, still feel the way she’s been touching you all night—fingers brushing, hands sliding, always just enough to make you want more and never enough to satisfy it. Your friends weren’t subtle about it either. At it like rabbits, they’d laughed.

They weren’t wrong.

Christina’s hand settles on your thigh like she owns it, warm and deliberate, creeping higher with every bump in the road, finding that sensitive spot. You turn your head toward her, catching her watching you through half-lidded eyes, lips curved like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Christina,” you mutter, her name a warning and a plea all at once.

She leans in closer, breath warm against your ear. “Yes, baby?” Innocent. Fake. Evil.

Your fingers tighten in her jacket as you notice the quiet click of her seatbelt coming undone. You glance down, then back up at her, brows lifting.

“What are you—” She doesn’t answer. She just shifts, smooth and unhurried, swinging her leg over you and settling into your lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath catches despite yourself. “Naughty,” you murmur, voice low, teasing.

“Couldn’t even wait till we’re home?” Christina smiles like she’s winning. She presses a slow, soft kiss to your lips—nothing urgent, nothing rushed—just enough to make your head spin. Then her mouth drifts to your jaw, your neck, kisses lingering, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.

A quiet sound slips from you before you can stop it.

“Babe,” you breathe, already ruined.

Neither of you notice the car slow until the driver clears his throat, amusement thick in his voice. “Alright,” he says. “You two might wanna take this inside.”

Christina laughs under her breath as she slides off your lap. You don’t wait. The second the door opens, you’re pulling her with you, lips crashing into hers before the Uber even pulls away. The walk to the apartment is a blur of stumbling steps and stolen kisses, hands everywhere, breathless laughter mixing with want. By the time you’re through the door, you don’t even bother locking it properly.

You back her into the kitchen without thinking, the counter pressing against the backs of her thighs. Christina’s hands are still confident, still teasing—but when you step in closer, when your hands settle on her hips and stay there, something shifts.

She looks up at you then, eyes dark, smile slower now.

You lift her onto the counter with ease, stepping between her knees. Her hands slide up your arms, but she lets you set the pace, lets you take control. Your forehead rests against hers for half a second, breath mingling, tension coiled tight between you.

“All that teasing,” you murmur, lips brushing hers, not quite kissing. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Christina exhales, fingers curling in your shirt. “Yeah?” she whispers. “Do something about it.”

Your answer is a kiss—deep, unhurried, claiming—hands steady at her waist as the world narrows to heat and mouths and the promise of what comes next.

And this time, you’re not letting her lead.