Hobbies Before Hubbies

Emma Hix has never needed much to melt for someone. A clever joke. A slow look. Right now it’s the way Adria Rae leans across the half-finished scrapbook, fingers ink-smudged and sure, that makes Emma’s stomach dip. They met three weeks ago at a paper-craft fair; now they’re perched on her living-room floor, glue sticks and lace scraps scattered like evidence. Emma tosses a laugh across the table. “You’re too easy to get along with. I should date someone like you. Wish I had a boyfriend who scrapbooked.” She waits a beat. “Hell, I should date you.” Adria keeps her eyes on Emma while she sets the glue down. “Why not?” she says. Emma blinks. The joke falls. Adria’s mouth is already curved, patient, like the punch line belongs to her. “I don’t date girls,” Emma says, soft. A reflex. Adria watches the small, unplanned swallow in her throat. “That’s new information,” Adria answers. “So why do you keep looking at my mouth?” She edges closer on her knees, denim whispering over hardwood. “You’re straight until you’re curious, Emma. Let me show you.” Emma’s reply is half breath. Adria doesn’t rush the kiss; she tastes slowly, tongue parting lips that are already parted, already warm. Hands move—Adria’s palm cupping Emma’s jaw, Emma’s fingers unsure until they fist the hem of Adria’s T-shirt. When the cotton comes up, it leaves the faint brush of lace against bare skin. Emma flinches, then sighs. Adria’s mouth follows the line of that sigh, down Emma’s neck to the hollow under her collarbone. They shift to the couch. Adria peels denim over her hips first, letting Emma watch. Smooth thighs, neat landing strip, already glistening when Adria spreads open. Emma stares, breath quick, then flushes when Adria meets her gaze again. “Your turn,” Adria whispers. Fingers push cotton aside, find slick heat. Emma’s hips jerk, a shy sound catching in her throat. Adria answers with steady pressure, circling, parting, coaxing. Two fingers slide in, curling once. Emma’s back arches; her mouth opens around Adria’s name. A minute later Adria’s tongue replaces them—slow, deliberate, tasting the tremor in Emma’s legs. Her thumbs pin trembling knees wide. When Emma breaks, it’s sudden: clenched thighs, salt on the tongue, raw and loud. Adria rides the wave with her, then kisses back up to share the taste. They pause only long enough for Adria to press two fingers back inside and rock. “Second one’s easier,” she murmurs. Emma proves her right twice more, the last time with Adria’s mouth at her ear, counting every shiver.