Can't Resist Creeping

Mary Moody and her best friend Abigail Mac lie tangled together on the rumpled bed. Empty ice-cream tub, two spoons sticking out, balled-up tissues tossed wherever they landed. Abigail’s crying over another breakup. Mary strokes her hair, offers to kill the night with a movie. Nothing big. Just light. Screen glow fades. Abigail dozes first, mouth soft, hand limp on the blanket. Mary shuts the laptop. Starts to slip away, boots half-on, when Abigail mumbles, half-asleep, “Stay a little longer.” Mary swallows and climbs back in, heart thumping harder than it should. They drift. Mary wakes, eye-lids sticky. She inches out again—slow, precise—until the sheet slips and everything stops. Abigail’s bare ass. Moonlight across the curve, the dimpled skin. Mary’s breath jams in her chest. Heat punches low. Her hand dips under her waistband before she can think twice. Fingers finding slick heat, stroking in time with every slow exhale Abigail takes. One too-loud gasp and Abigail’s lashes flutter. She twists, sees Mary frozen mid-stroke, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. Silence cracks. “What the fuck were you doing?” Mary’s excuses die fast. She blurts the truth: she couldn’t stop staring because she wants her. Abigail answers with a look that strips the air out of the room, then leans in, mouth fierce, tongue pushing deep, like she’s been waiting for the same forbidden green light.