Into the Dark

Megan isn’t scared of the dark—Mya Dark, to be exact. If anything, the darkness calls to her. Every time they’re alone she turns the room into something slow and close. Hands slip under clothes, then nothing stays on for long. Megan tastes her first, tongue lazy and deliberate, until Mya’s breathing breaks apart. When the strap comes out it isn’t rushed; Megan works it in with slick fingers, hips rocking in a steady rhythm that makes Mya curse and clutch the sheets. The moment Megan sinks into her, plastic stretching skin, everything else drops away—just heat, wetness, and the low sound of skin meeting skin until both of them come shaking.