Decorating With Pride

Brittany Andrews had kept her mouth shut for years, smiled through dates with men, pretended her body didn’t burn when the waitress handed her the check. Now she was out and the only place loud enough to hold that much need was her own four walls. Destiny Cruz showed up with her folder of fabric swatches and within ten minutes Brittany was tossing out ideas like she had to prove every single second of silence she’d ever swallowed—rainbow carpet, etched glass of breasts and mouths, even twin bronze battle-axes crossed over the mantel. Destiny listened, one eyebrow lifted. She let the last ridiculous suggestion hang, then cut the air with her voice: "You don’t need so many flags when you’re already flying the real thing every time you touch a woman." Brittany’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Destiny’s eyes stayed on her, dark and steady. "Live it, sweetheart. The décor can follow." The sentence dropped straight between Brittany’s ribs. Heat moved low and quick. For the first time she admitted it out loud: she hadn’t done any of it. No nights she couldn’t name, no hands that knew how she tasted, no one who’d asked if she wanted to come again. Destiny’s smile changed shape—slower, sharper. "Well," she said, already shrugging out of her blazer, "consider yourself connected."