I Want My BFF

I rarely write in this diary. Something about Giselle Amore has me burning up, and tonight I needed somewhere for it to go. We've been best friends for years. Lately every glance from her makes my stomach tighten. She vented about her useless boyfriend this morning and all I wanted to say was, "Leave him. Let me have you." Instead I smiled, offered wine, and let her vent while my mind raced with what I would do if she gave me even the smallest opening. She's due any minute. I've locked the door, dimmed the lights, and slipped into that thin black slip that clings when I'm warm. The plan is simple and shameless: walk straight up to her, cup those full breasts she's always complained are too heavy, and bury my face between them. I want to feel the weight of them against my cheeks before I draw a nipple into my mouth and suck until it stiffens. Then I'll drop to my knees, spread her thighs, and press my tongue flat against the soft seam of her panties. I need to taste how wet she gets for me, lick through cotton until the fabric is soaked, then peel it aside and drink straight from the source. After that I want her on my face, hips rolling while her mouth works between my own legs. I want both of us slick, noisy, greedy—nothing left to guess about how we feel. When she walks through that door tonight, I'm done pretending.