A Thing For Bad Girls

Chanell Heart sits in her living room, phone pressed to her ear. 'Yeah, my last date was a bust,' she sighs. 'I just get so frustrated. What does it take to find a girlfriend around here?' She laughs once, then drops her voice. 'I know, I know—I always go for the bad ones when I should want the good ones. But how can I help myself?' A door opens down the hall. Chanell tells her friend she has to go and hangs up. Gianna Dior steps into the room wearing loose clothes and a baseball cap, backpack slung over one shoulder. Her face is calm, focused. One hand stays inside her jacket pocket, the fabric pulled taut around something pointed straight at Chanell. Gianna says she just hit a bank and needs somewhere to disappear for the next twelve hours. Chanell studies her, then calls the bluff. She demands to see what’s in the pocket. After a tense pause Gianna pulls her hand out and shows her—the finger she’d been aiming like a gun. Chanell’s eyes spark. 'You robbed a bank with just your finger?' A slow smile curves her lips. Heat creeps into her voice. 'That’s daring. Dangerous.' She steps closer, studying Gianna’s steady stare. 'What if the cops catch you?' 'Won’t happen,' Gianna answers, low and sharp. 'Unless you rat me out. Are you going to?' Chanell shivers, but it isn’t fear. 'Of course not. I’m at the mercy of your finger now.' She’s never had a real bad girl in her living room before. Gianna sets the backpack down, and Chanell’s gaze drifts over the natural swell of her breasts beneath the loose shirt. The younger woman peels the cap off, dark hair spilling free. They move together without another word—Gianna’s strong fingers slipping between Chanell’s thighs, Chanell guiding Gianna onto her back so mouths meet slick heat in a hungry sixty-nine. Every stroke of Gianna’s hand, every flick of Chanell’s tongue, tastes like danger, and neither one wants it to end.