Joanna Loves Crystal

Crystal leaned against the kitchen island, still mid-sentence about Staten Island when the accent slipped out thicker, heavier, pure New York. That warm, clipped twang slid straight through me. I didn't answer her—I dropped, tugging her shorts down, pressing my mouth to her bare skin before she could finish. She caught her breath but didn't stop me. My tongue found her quickly, slick and warm, tasting salt and want. She tasted clean, then sharper the more she reacted, fingers gripping the counter edge. I worked her open, slow circles pulling into fast ones, then soft again, my jaw working until her thighs shook and her words tangled. Somewhere between ''on the ferry'' and a broken moan, she arched against my face, swearing in that same accent that got me on my knees.