Penny was drunk.
That was the only logical explanation Amy could come up with. So drunk that she wouldn’t remember any of this.
She wouldn’t recall kissing Amy like she was a Disney Princess and pulling her into bed, wrapping her pajama-clad legs around Amy’s and rubbing her damp mound against Amy’s. She wouldn’t recall unbuttoning her pajama tops and kneading Amy’s soft, small breasts until the nipples grew hard and began aching. She wouldn’t remember kissing Amy over the edge and back again, or cuddling her with the sleepy, fond, loving look Amy had long hoped Penny would bestow on her.
Penny was pale pink all over, and the most beautiful sight Amy had ever seen.
That’s what Amy would remember for so many days after that night. And try to forget.