We Like Girls - Syren & Dee

She walked into the green room and Dee looked up. ‘Who the fuck is that?’ Five years later, nothing’s changed. Syren still makes her dumb and dizzy every time she opens a door. They said it started on set, one glance across catering. Dee was still married back then and the husband never once looked at her the way Syren did, like she was already naked, already his. ‘She’s my first girl,’ Syren told me, palms pressed to her chest like she had to keep her heart from jumping out. Her smile made it hard to look anywhere else. When the interview stopped and we let them touch again, the air thickened so fast you could taste it. Dee’s fingers threaded through Syren’s hair, pulled, whispered something dirty against her mouth. Syren answered by biting Dee’s lower lip, hard enough to leave the outline. They pressed close, hips grinding slow like they had all day and no one watching, though we were right there, lights still hot. Dee’s thigh slid between Syren’s legs and rocked once, twice—controlled, filthy, the promise of what they’d do the second the door shut behind them. Watching two women fuck with their eyes before they fuck with anything else is its own kind of violence. I couldn’t blink. Neither could they.