Not Her Type?!?

Whitney Wright gets stares all the time. She never stops to think what it does to her. So when Alexa Nova lets slip that her sister Aiden Ashley just came out and swears Whitney isn’t her type, something in Whitney snaps. Nobody turns her down. Not even the ones who like girls. Especially not them. She waits until Alexa leaves, then sets her jaw and climbs the stairs to Aiden’s room. Aiden sits there with college forms spread across the bed, pen already tapping, already bored. Whitney starts slow—leans in, drops her voice, drags a finger across Aiden’s shoulder. Aiden keeps writing. Whitney strips down right in front of her, not a stitch left, close enough for the heat of her skin to touch the air between them. Aiden glances up once, irritated, like someone interrupted a good movie. “You’re hot,” she says, flat. “Just too much drama.” Whitney pushes anyway, breath short, lips parted. Aiden finally sighs, clicks her pen shut, and agrees. One fuck and she’s gone. That’s the deal. They fall into each other fast, tongues wet, thighs shaking. Aiden’s fingers slide deep and know exactly what they’re doing; Whitney comes like she’s been waiting years. Aiden doesn’t miss the way she keeps asking for more, sucking greedier, greedier still. Neither of them says it out loud, but they both feel the same thing settle heavy and obvious between the sheets: Whitney wants this more than she’ll admit, more than she can walk away from now that she’s tasted it.