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the way she sits

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"Say it," Kristen whispers, her breath hot.

"Fuck me." A whimper. Her body jerks. "Joan."


They're both fucked up. The hotel room is hazy--Cherie's hips move to some rhythm in her head as she tries to master the move, making it worse, not better with time.

Joan speaks up, the glaze over her eyes doing nothing to conceal the fact that she's been staring. "I hate that fucking corset." The bed's uncomfortable. She sucks in a lungful of smoke, exhales.

"Oh yeah? What do I care what you think?" Cherie drops the microphone, daring Joan to contradict her. And she does, moving faster than she should be able to, suddenly her leather-clad body next to Cherie's and her fingers against Cherie's dark-pantied hips.

"I think you do care," she growls, moving ever-so-slightly, smiling when Cherie grows damp.

But Cherie won't give in, not even when Joan's fingers slide in, finding her deliciously wet.

"I think you do care." Joan doesn't give Cherie anything, fingers skating past her clit--lightning fast and featherlight. "No," she says, taking Cherie's chin, "I want you to look at me."

Their eyes meet and Joan brings her off wordlessly, the only sounds coming from the fingers in Cherie's cunt and the heavy breaths from her open mouth.

"Now, take that thing off," Joan says. She pulls her fingers free and swipes them across her shirt. "I never want to see it again."


Her hand gripping hard to the pillow--the only part of her body not shaking and spent. "God," she breathes, trying to find muscles again. Kristen's mouth on her is like a spark, everything comes alive.

"I need a cigarette," Dakota mumbles, arching her back.

Kristen brushes back the tangled blonde hair and kisses her instead. "Later."