Can't Resist Creeping

Mary Moody and Abigail Mac lie tangled in sheets, an empty ice-cream tub and damp tissues pushed to one side. Mary strokes Abigail’s back while her friend sniffles over a fresh break-up. “We can watch something,” Mary offers. The laptop hums, then dims when Abigail drifts off. Mary closes the lid and stands, ready to slip away, but Abigail’s hand finds her wrist. “Stay a minute?” Mary smiles and eases under the covers, breath hitching when Abigail’s bare thigh brushes her own. They both sink into sleep. Later, Mary wakes first. She slides free, quiet as breath, then freezes at the foot of the bed. The sheet has slipped; Abigail’s round, sleep-warmed ass gleams in the low light. Mary’s mouth goes dry. She stays rooted, hand drifting down the front of her pants. Two careful fingers work in small circles, her stare locked on that perfect curve while her other hand braces against the doorframe. A quiet, helpless whimper escapes her. Abigail’s lashes flutter open. Confusion knots her brow. “Were you…?” Mary tries to stammer out a lie, then exhales and lets the truth land: “I couldn’t look away. I’ve wanted you.” Surprise softens into heat; Abigail tugs her close. Their mouths meet—slow at first, then slick and urgent, the taste of sugar still on Abigail’s tongue. Both girls smile against the kiss, grateful Mary never made it to the door.