Our First Fight

Kristen stands at the mirror drawing a line of liner across her lid when the door opens. Jane steps inside looking like a long-legged predator in midnight silk. Their eyes meet. The air shifts. "You look insane in that dress," Jane says, stepping closer. Her hand skims down Kristen's back, but her smile falters. She recognizes the hem, the hidden side zip, the raw cut she herself chose on a whim last year. "Wait. That's mine." Kristen stays perfectly still, lashes low. "No it isn't. I've had it forever." Jane finds the tag and the tiny J.W. stitched beneath it. "You lying little thief." Kristen tries one last grin. "Fine. I forgot." Jane doesn't argue; she lunges. They crash across the bed in a tangle of silk and perfume, grappling, breathless, legs locking, nails slipping on warm skin. Fabric tears. Kristen curses, Jane pants, and for a moment there is nothing but the raw wrestling of two bodies fighting to strip each other. The dress finally gives, sliding off Kristen's breasts and hips like a dark spill. She collapses, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. "You win. I took it. I just wanted one perfect night." Jane kneels above her, knees planted on either side of her waist, dress clutched like a trophy. "You looked perfect in it," she says, voice low. "Next time ask." Kristen licks her lips, eyes half-closed. "How do I make it right?" Jane leans down until their mouths almost touch. "Stay in tonight. Make it up to me with your mouth, your hands, your cunt—whatever it takes until I'm satisfied." Her fingers slide between Kristen's thighs, claiming the forfeit they both crave.