Fauxmance

Keisha snapped the phone shut, her jaw clenched so hard it ached. She'd known for weeks. The late nights. The weak excuses. The moment she'd asked flat out, he stumbled. She cut him off mid-sentence and ended it, no tears, just fury pulsing through her veins. Chloe heard the whole blow-up from the hall. She cracked the door and saw Keisha on the edge of the bed, cheeks streaked, black lace bra peeking from the low neckline of her tight dress. The day they'd planned was shot, so Chloe decided to claim it. Bath first. Steam fogged the mirror. Bubbles piled high. Chloe knelt behind Keisha, suds sliding over the swell of her breasts, fingers circling tight nipples until Keisha gasped and thanked her for salvaging the day. That thanks was all the opening Chloe needed. She leaned down, lips brushing wet skin, tongue flicking the rim of Keisha's ear before she claimed her mouth. Keisha froze, eyes wide, then jerked upright, water sloshing. She muttered an apology and fled, leaving Chloe staring at her shaking hands. The next morning, Chloe stepped into Keisha's room ready to beg forgiveness and drop the truth: she'd wanted Keisha for months and could no longer hide that she was a woman for women. Keisha listened, breathing fast. Then, softly, she admitted the same thoughts had been burning behind her ribs every time Chloe brushed past her. Relief cracked open between them. Chloe worried about wrecking the friendship; Keisha just grinned, said it couldn't go anywhere but higher, and pulled her in. Their mouths crashed together, hard and hungry, hands sliding under shirts, over bare skin, hips pressing close. The day had started in tears. It was ending in tangled sheets and breathless moans.