Girl Fever Read Free Page B

mercilessly.
    â€œI hate you.”
    â€œYou think I’m hot,” Enid corrected, disappearing toward the bathroom and leaving the door open.
    Rebecca followed. She knew an invitation when she saw one.

SHE WRITHES BENEATH ME
    Roxy Jones
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    S he writhes beneath me, gasping and arching—my hungry fingers coaxing low moans and supplications, prayers to the god of hotel-room carpets and fluorescent lights. My hand is slick with her, bathed in her need, and my thighs are sore but greedy still—pushing, taunting, fucking in a daze of amazement at my luck to have such a handsome feast laid out for eager hands to grasp, darting tongue to discover.
    When we finally venture downstairs, eyes blinking in the light, craving coffee and day-old pastries, we don’t notice the glances of our shocked, sleepless neighbors at first as they pick at their Frosted Flakes, but then it swells up behind us like massive waves of jealous whispers, and their hollow eyes betray the hours they lay still, listening with cold, blue envy. They wonder, I imagine, how we
were entwined, whose sweaty skin slid on sheets, whose knees were spread and held, whose face met the sky with a growl and a whimper as we arched up off the bed like we had learned to fly. They’re desperate to ask, to guess at which of us lay back to receive and which dealt it out, those hours of savage recklessness, the audacious pounding that drove the bedpost into plaster walls over and over throughout the Sweet. Silent. Night.
    I smile at them with a wicked pride, like a lion in the sun, because I know. I know the color of her thighs, the shape of her belly when we dance tight, the smile that belongs to me and no one else. I know her smell, her touch, the look in her eyes when I slammed her up against the cold, dirty, brick alley wall and we melted together in the darkness.
    They’re all guessing, but I know.
    I know the sound of her thirteenth orgasm, begging for release. (I count them like wanton rosary beads, head bowed in prayer, devoted lips mouthing my zeal.) I know the sweet, salty thrust of her hips, tense with desire. I know the woman inside the man, the clit behind the catalog cock that rocked between us, linking pussy to cunt like two massive steam engines racing recklessly together on the same track, headed for one glorious, shuddering collision after another.
    So I smile again, sweetly, and broader than the first, and they turn away, suddenly red.
    I wonder if it’s the knowing in my eyes that makes them look away, afraid of what would happen if they
asked, or what they would hear if I answered. Terrified to know that all their shocked and horrified hand-wringing, their frenzied, frantic dreams of bodies entwined, coiled and bent in feverish passion, didn’t come close to the fiery, fierce heat that burned between us all night.
    They sit, frozen but for fluttering hearts, afraid of what they’re guessing at, afraid of what they’d ask, and desperately, but politely, afraid of what they’d hear.
    Because they know in their guts, from the sparkle in my eyes, that I might just tell them.
    Everything.

OH CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN
    Cha Cha White
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    W hat we need,” said the captain, her ass testing the twill fabric of her pants as she strode down the corridor, “is some girl-on-girl action.”
    â€œCome again, ma’am?” Lieutenant O’Hara struggled to catch up as the captain neared the engine room of the alien craft they’d captured when their own ship was destroyed.
    O’Hara wished the captain would wear the regulation uniform jacket, instead of the black muscle tee that showed her sculpted arms, set off her brown skin and emphasized her perfect, braless tits. Combined with the snug pants hugging toned legs and that wonderful ass, the sexy tee was a major distraction.
    â€œYou heard me, Lieutenant. Assemble the crew. Our hostage is dead, we have no