Fake Date Domination

Chapter One

All right, here is how it started. You are going to think I made the whole thing up.

I didn't.

It started on a warm, slightly windy Thursday near the end of spring. Alessia texted me at noon: park? 4pm? need to ask you something important. A second message followed: please don't be late. Then she sent a heart, all by itself.

Three messages in a row meant she was nervous. Alessia only triple-texts when she's nervous.

Naturally, I was late.

She was already sitting on our bench by the pond, the one with the peeling green paint, and she'd pulled her knees up to her chest. Her blonde hair was loose and the wind kept blowing it across her face, and she kept tucking it back behind her ear with this small, patient movement. Over and over.

That was Alessia in a nutshell. She moves like a cat. Not the mean kind that leaves dead birds on your doorstep. The sweet, curious kind--the one that stretches in a sunny patch and gives you a slow blink, like she has a secret to share. She's small, much smaller than me, with sharp Slavic cheekbones and big green eyes and a way of tilting her head when she listens. Everything she does looks a little like a dance, even when she's just sitting there.

I am nothing like that: tall, curvy, and brunette. Big chest, big hips, the kind of body that takes up room. I don't fidget. I don't rush. People call me calm. They are probably right. I have never understood what hurrying is supposed to improve.

"You're late," she said, when I sat down.

"Six minutes."

"Six minutes is late, Mia."

"I brought you a lemonade."

She took it. She always takes it. "You're forgiven."

"I wasn't asking to be."

She rolled her eyes at me, and I smiled, and for a minute we just sat there and drank and watched a duck try to bully another duck. For a minute it was pleasant and ordinary. Remember that part; it was the last ordinary minute we got.

Then she put her cup down on the bench between us and turned to face me, and she did the hair thing again. Tuck. Tuck.

"So," she said.

"So."

"The thing is, my best friend is getting married."

"Ella?"

"Ella. In two weeks. At this little hotel in the countryside. It's going to be beautiful."

"Okay. And?"

"And my ex will also be there."

I waited. She offered nothing else. She just looked at me, like that was the whole story.

"So?" I said.

She drew in a breath. Her cheeks were already pink, and she hadn't even said it yet. I remember thinking, oh, this is going to be good.

"I've told him that I've turned lesbian!"

I stared at her.

"You did what?"

Then I laughed. There was no stopping it. It just came out of me, a real laugh, loud, from my belly. The duck flew away. A man on the next bench looked over. Alessia grabbed my arm with both hands like she could stop the sound by holding on.

"Mia! Stop it!"

"You turned lesbian?"

"Shh!"

"When? Over lunch? Was it sudden?"

"I hate you."

"You don't." I wiped my eyes. "Okay. Okay. I'm done. Explain."

She let go of my arm, but slowly. She didn't take her hands all the way back. They rested on her knees, close to me.

"I just wanted to make sure he doesn't try to hit on me again," she said. "Marek. You remember Marek."

"Guitar Marek."

"Guitar Marek. He's the groom's cousin. So he'll be there the whole weekend. And every time I see him he does this thing where he stands too close and says we should talk, and I don't want to talk, I never want to talk to him again. So when he texted me last week and asked if I was seeing anyone, I panicked. And I said yes. And he asked who. And I said..." She covered her face. "I said it was a girl."

"Just tell him to fuck off!"

"I can't do that!"

"Sure you can!" I leaned back against the bench and spread my arms along the top of it. "It's two words. Very easy. Much easier than becoming a lesbian!"

"I'm not a lesbian!" she insisted, dropping her hands. Her eyes were huge and green and very serious. "I'm just playing one!"

"Whatever!" I shrugged. "You shouldn't change your sexuality because of this dude. Because of your ex. He doesn't deserve that kind of commitment."

She laughed at that, a little, but it faded fast. She looked down at her lap. Her fingers found the edge of her skirt and started folding it, unfolding it.

I watched her fingers worry the fabric. Waiting is something I am good at. Most people can't stand silence, and if you just let it sit there long enough, they'll fill it with the thing they actually came to say.

Alessia lasted about ten seconds.

"He wants to meet her," she said quietly.

"Meet who?"

"My girlfriend."

"Your imaginary girlfriend."

"Yes."

"At the wedding."

"Yes."

I looked at her. She looked at her skirt.

"Lessi."

"Mm."

"Look at me."

I still have no idea where that voice came from. It wasn't my normal voice. It was lower. Slower. Softer, somehow, but also more... certain. Like the words already knew they'd be obeyed.

And they were. Her eyes came up right away and met mine. Instantly. No hesitation at all.

My chest gave a quick, stupid jump, the way it does when you miss a stair.

"You want me to pretend," I said.

She nodded. Very small.

"Say it."

"I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend," she whispered. "At the wedding. Just for the weekend. Please."

Her cheeks were bright red now, and it had spread down her neck. Her lips were slightly parted. She was holding very still, the way you hold still when you're waiting for someone to decide something about you.

A normal best friend would have said yes straightaway. Yes, sure, of course, anything for you.

I made her wait.

I took a sip of my lemonade. I watched the pond. I counted to five in my head, slowly, and the whole time I could feel her looking at me. Waiting for me. Hanging on whatever I'd say next.

The honest answer is that I loved making her wait. I had no idea why.

"Okay," I said finally.

Her breath came out all at once. "Okay? Really?"

"On one condition."

"Anything."

"You don't know what it is yet."

"Anything," she said again, and then heard herself, and went even redder. "I mean. Within reason."

"If I'm going to be your girlfriend, I'm going to do it properly. I'm not standing in a corner holding your hand like a nervous teenager. If we do this, we do it my way." I turned my head and looked at her. "Which means for the whole weekend, I'm in charge. You do what I say."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. I watched her think about it.

This was the part that caught me off guard. I'd expected her to laugh. To roll her eyes, push my shoulder, say oh my God, Mia, you're so dramatic. That's what she'd always done when I bossed her around before.

She didn't.

She just looked at me with those big green eyes, and swallowed, and said, "Okay."

"Okay what?"

A pause. Then, softly: "Okay. You're in charge."

"Good girl."

It slipped out. I swear it just slipped out. I'd never called anyone that in my life, not seriously, not like that. I almost laughed and took it back.

But then I saw her face.

She didn't flinch. She didn't laugh. She ducked her head, like the words had touched her somewhere, and a small helpless smile pulled at the corner of her mouth, and she tucked her hair behind her ear again. Tuck. Tuck. Except this time her fingers were trembling a little.

I left the words where they were.

"Thank you," she said. "Really. You're saving my life."

"I know."

"I'll owe you."

"You will." I stood up and held my hand out to her. "Come on. I'll walk you home."

She looked at my hand for a second. Then she took it, and I pulled her up off the bench, and she was so light that she stumbled a little and caught herself against my chest. For a moment we were very close. I could smell her shampoo, something with vanilla in it. Her hand was warm and small in mine.

She didn't let go right away. Neither did I.

"Practice," I said.

"Practice," she agreed, a little breathless.

We left the park holding hands. I kept my pace slow, and she adjusted to it without being told.

Here is the thing you need to know. I'm straight. I've always been straight. I've had boyfriends, I've had crushes on actors, I've never once looked at a girl and felt anything other than nice dress. So I didn't know what to make of the warm, buzzing feeling under my skin as we walked. I didn't know why my heart was going so fast. I didn't know why I kept replaying the way she'd said okay, you're in charge, so quietly, like she meant it.

I told myself it was just a game. A favor. Two weeks, one wedding, and then everything would go back to normal.

I believed it, too. Completely.

For about two weeks.

Chapter Two

I would love to tell you the next two weeks were about anything else. They were not.

I thought about the park. About okay, you're in charge. About the way her fingers had trembled when she tucked her hair back. I'd be in the middle of something completely boring, folding laundry or waiting for the bus, and suddenly I'd hear her voice again, small and soft, saying please, and I'd feel that little jolt in my chest. Missing a step on the stairs.

We texted like normal. Memes, complaints about work, a long argument about whether pineapple belongs on pizza. (It doesn't. She's wrong.) Neither of us mentioned the condition. But it was there. I could feel it sitting between us, waiting.

Then it was Friday, and I was parked outside her building at eight in the morning, and she came down the stairs with a suitcase almost as big as she was.

"Lessi. It's two nights."

"I need options."

"You need a forklift."

She stuck her tongue out at me and dragged it to the back of my car. My car is old. Very old. It's a little blue thing with a dent in the passenger door and a radio that only gets two stations, and the trunk was not designed for a suitcase like hers. We stood there together and looked at the problem.

"It won't fit," she said.

"It'll fit."

"Mia, it physically will not fit."

"Push."

She pushed. I watched. She pushed harder, her whole little body leaning into it, cheeks going pink, and finally the suitcase slid in with a groan and I closed the trunk on it.

"See?" I said. "It fit."

"I made it fit."

"Because I told you to." I smiled at her. "Get in the car."

She gave me a look. But she got in the car.

The drive took three hours. Countryside most of the way, long roads between fields, little villages with one church and one bakery each. The sun was out. I had the windows down because the air conditioning stopped working sometime around the last election, and the wind kept pulling her hair loose, and she kept tucking it back.

About twenty minutes in, she reached into her bag and pulled out a family-sized bag of paprika chips.

"Breakfast," she announced.

"That's not breakfast."

"It's potatoes. Potatoes are breakfast."

She opened the bag and started eating. Crunch. Crunch. The smell filled the whole car. I kept my eyes on the road and my hands at ten and two. After a minute, I said as casually as I could:

"I'm hungry too."

"There's another bag in the back."

"I'm driving, Lessi."

"So?"

"So I can't take my hands off the wheel."

She looked at me. I didn't look at her. I just kept driving, calm, patient, like I had all the time in the world.

There was a long pause.

Then I heard the rustle of the bag. And out of the corner of my eye, I saw her hand coming toward me, holding a single chip between two fingers.

I opened my mouth.

She put the chip on my tongue. Carefully. Like she was afraid of getting it wrong. Her fingertips brushed my lip, just for a second, and then they were gone.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome," she said, and her voice had gone a little quieter.

"Another one."

She gave me another one.

I should be honest about this part. I started it as a joke. I really did. I was teasing her, the way I always tease her, and I fully expected her to laugh and throw a chip at my head and tell me to pull over if I was so hungry.

But she didn't. She fed me. One chip at a time, slow and careful, watching my mouth to make sure she got it right. And after a while she stopped waiting for me to ask. She just watched me, and when I'd finished one, she'd have the next one ready.

"You're good at this," I said.

She laughed, but it came out a little shaky. "At feeding you chips?"

"At paying attention."

She didn't answer that. When I glanced over, she was looking down at the bag, and her ears were red.

Somewhere around the second hour, I said, "Water."

She uncapped the bottle and held it to my lips and tipped it, very gently, and I drank, and a drop ran down my chin. Before I could do anything about it, she reached up and wiped it away with her thumb.

Then she seemed to realize what she'd done and snatched her hand back.

"Sorry," she said.

"Don't be." I kept my eyes on the road. "That was nice."

For a while there was only wind and the radio, playing some old song from the eighties on one of its two stations.

"You don't have to do all this, you know," I said. "Just because I'm helping you."

"I know."

"I'm serious. You don't owe me snacks."

"I know," she said again. And then, so quietly I almost didn't hear it over the wind: "I like doing it."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't, really. My throat had gone a little tight.

Because I'd been telling myself all morning that she was just being sweet. Grateful. Paying back her debt in paprika chips. But that wasn't what I'd just heard. I like doing it. She wasn't doing it because she had to.

She was doing it because she wanted to. Because I asked.

I gripped the wheel a little harder and watched the fields go by and tried as hard as I could not to smile.

I failed.

"Lessi."

"Mm?"

"Another chip."

She gave me one. Her fingers lingered on my lip a little longer this time.

The hotel was beautiful. Old stone, ivy all over the walls, a garden with little lights strung through the trees, and somewhere behind it a field full of wildflowers where they were setting up chairs for the ceremony. People were everywhere, carrying flowers and boxes and folding tables. Ella came running across the gravel the second we got out of the car and threw her arms around Alessia, and then, a little more carefully, around me.

"You must be the girlfriend," she said, beaming at me.

I glanced at Alessia. Alessia was looking at her shoes.

"I must be," I said.

"Lessi's told me nothing. She's so secretive. I had no idea." Ella squeezed my arm. "I'm so happy for you two. Seriously. Okay, I've got about nine thousand things to do, but your room's on the top floor, number fourteen. Sorry, it's a bit small. We're totally full."

"It's fine," Alessia said. "Thank you."

"Everything's fine as long as you're together, right?" Ella winked and ran off.

We stood there on the gravel.

"She knows?" I said.

"She thinks she knows."

"You lied to the bride."

"I panicked."

"You do that a lot." I picked up my bag. "Get your suitcase. Top floor."

"There's no elevator."

"Then you'll have to carry it."

She looked at the suitcase. She looked at the old stone stairs. She looked at me.

I raised an eyebrow.

She carried it. All three floors. Bumping it up one step at a time, huffing and puffing, while I walked ahead of her with my little bag over my shoulder. I did offer to help, once, at the second landing. She said no. She said she could do it. And she did. When she reached the top she was flushed and breathless and very proud of herself, and I said, "Well done," and she lit up like I'd given her a medal.

I liked that. I liked it more than I can explain.

Room fourteen was not a bit small. Room fourteen was tiny.

It was up under the roof, with a sloped ceiling on one side and a little round window that looked out over the garden. There was a wardrobe. A chair. A door to a bathroom the size of a phone booth.

There was one bed.

One small bed. Not a double. Not even really a single-and-a-half. Just a bed with a white quilt and two pillows squeezed side by side, like somebody had a sense of humor.

We stopped in the doorway and stared at it together.

"Okay," Alessia said.

"Okay," I said.

"I can sleep on the floor."

"There is no floor."

She looked around. I was right. Between the bed and the wardrobe there was just enough space to stand sideways.

"We would figure it out," I said, and dropped my bag on the chair, and that was that.

We unpacked. Well, I unpacked. I had one dress, one pair of jeans, a few shirts, and my toiletries, and it took me about four minutes. Alessia opened her enormous suitcase on the bed and it sort of exploded. Dresses. Shoes. Three different cardigans. A hair straightener and a curling iron.

"Options," she said, before I could say anything.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, on the little corner that wasn't covered in clothes, and watched her hang things in the wardrobe. She moved around the tiny room like she always moves, light and easy, stepping around the corners without ever bumping into them. Up on her toes to reach a hanger. Down to tuck shoes under the bed. A little stretch, a little turn.

She held up a pale green dress. Then a dark blue one.

"Which one for tonight?"

"Green," I said.

"You didn't even think about it."

"I didn't need to. Green. It matches your eyes."

She looked at me for a second. Then she looked away and laid the green dress over the back of the chair, very carefully, smoothing out the fabric with her palm.

"I should change," she said. "I'm all sweaty from the car. And the stairs."

"From the stairs you wouldn't let me help with."

"From the stairs you wouldn't help with."

"I offered."

"Once."

"Once is plenty." I stood up. "I'll wait outside."

I was already reaching for the door when she said it.

"You don't have to."

I stopped.

She was standing by the wardrobe with her back half turned to me. She wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the green dress.

"You don't have to," she said again. "You're in charge, remember?"

The room went very quiet.

I could hear people talking down in the garden. Somebody laughing. A car on the gravel. And inside, just the two of us, and that small bed, and those words still hanging in the air.

I could have laughed. That would have been easy. Ha ha, very funny, I'll be in the hallway. She'd have laughed too, and it would have been nothing.

Instead I let go of the door handle.

I walked back to the bed. Slowly. I sat down on the edge of it, leaned back on my hands, crossed my legs, and looked at her.

"That's right," I said. "I am."

And there it was again. That voice. Lower. Slower. Like somebody else had moved into my throat, somebody calmer than me, somebody who knew exactly what she wanted.

Alessia turned around.

Her cheeks were pink. Her eyes were very wide. She looked at me sitting there, and I watched her understand that I wasn't going to leave, and I watched her decide that she didn't want me to.

"Go on, then," I said.

She swallowed.

Then she reached down and took hold of the hem of her T-shirt, and pulled it up over her head.

A good friend would have looked away. I did not.

She was wearing a simple white bra, cotton, nothing fancy. Her skin was pale and smooth, and there was a little flush spreading across her collarbones, down her chest. She folded the shirt. Of course she folded it. She folded it neatly and laid it on the chair, and then she stood there, and her hands drifted up like she wanted to cover herself, and then stopped halfway.

She looked at me.

Waiting.

She was waiting for me.

"The shorts too," I said softly.

She unbuttoned them. Slid them down over her hips. Stepped out of them, one foot and then the other, graceful even doing that, like she was stepping out of water. White underwear to match the bra. She folded the shorts and put them on top of the shirt, and then she straightened up and stood in front of me in that tiny room, under the sloped ceiling, with the afternoon light coming in through the round window and landing right on her.

I'd seen Alessia in a bikini before. Plenty of times. At the lake, at the pool, summer after summer. It had never been like this.

Because she'd never stood in front of me like this. Like she was offering herself up to be looked at. Like she'd only move again when I said so.

"Turn around," I said.

I meant it as a joke. I swear I did. I was going to say it and then laugh, and she'd laugh, and the tension would pop like a soap bubble.

But she turned around. Slowly. Her hair swung against her shoulder blades. She looked back at me over her shoulder, and the light caught her face, and I forgot to laugh.

"Like that?" she asked.

"Like that." My mouth had gone dry. "Now put your hands up. In your hair."

She lifted her arms and slid her fingers into her hair and gathered it up off her neck, and held it there. Her back arched a little. Not much. Just enough. She tilted her head, the way she does when she's listening, and waited.

"Turn to the side."

She turned. Profile. Her chin up, her hands still in her hair, the line of her body from her raised elbows down to her bare feet like a drawing. She didn't wobble. She didn't giggle. She just did it, every movement soft and slow and elegant, like her body was translating my words into something beautiful.

And she kept looking at me. From the corner of her eye, always checking. Is this right? Is this what you want?

It was. It absolutely was.

I am not sure I can explain what was happening inside me. My heart was hammering. My face was hot. There was a warmth gathering low in my stomach, heavy and slow, and I knew exactly what that warmth was, and I had absolutely no idea what it was doing there. I'm straight. I'd told myself that so many times over the past two weeks that it had started to sound like a question.

But it wasn't really about her body. Or it wasn't only about her body.

It was that she was doing it. For me. Because I said so. Every little instruction I gave, she just... took it. Held it. Gave it back to me better than I'd imagined it. And every time she did, I felt something in me grow a little taller. A little surer.

I liked how easily she obeyed me. I liked it so much it scared me a little.

"Lessi," I said.

"Yes?"

"Look at me."

She turned her head and looked straight at me. Her hands were still up in her hair. Her chest was rising and falling a little faster than normal. Her lips were parted.

"Are you okay?" I asked. Softer now. Gentle. "Is this okay?"

She was quiet for a second. Then she nodded.

"Say it."

"It's okay," she whispered. "I'm okay." A pause, and then, very shyly: "I like it."

There it was again. I like it. Like in the car.

I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding.

"You're doing so well," I told her. And I watched it land. Watched her shoulders soften and her eyes go warm and a tiny, helpless smile tug at her mouth. She glowed. There's no other word for it. I said five words and she glowed.

"Can I..." she started, and stopped.

"Can you what?"

"Can I put my hands down now?"

I almost said no. Just to see what she'd do. Just to see if she'd keep holding them up, her arms getting tired, waiting for me to let her go.

I think she would have. That's what got me. I really think she would have.

"Yes," I said. "You can put them down. And go take your shower. You're all sweaty from carrying that ridiculous suitcase."

She let her hair fall. She lowered her arms slowly, and then she laughed, a breathless, wobbly little laugh, and pressed her palms to her red cheeks.

"Oh my God," she said.

"Mm-hm."

"Mia. Oh my God."

"Shower," I said. "Now. We're going to be late."

"We're never late. You're late."

"Lessi."

That voice again. Just her name, low and calm. And she stopped laughing, and bit her lip, and said, "Yes. Okay. Going."

She grabbed the green dress off the chair and scurried into the little bathroom and shut the door behind her. A second later I heard the water start.

And I just sat there on the edge of that tiny bed, under that sloped ceiling, with my heart going like a drum and my hands pressed flat against the quilt so they wouldn't shake.

What are you doing, I asked myself. What on earth are you doing?

I didn't have an answer. I'll be honest with you, I didn't even really want one.

What I wanted was for her to come back out of that bathroom and look at me again the way she just had. Waiting. Checking. Asking without asking.

I wanted to tell her what to do.

And the craziest part, the part I still can't quite believe, is that I was pretty sure she wanted that too.

The water ran. I listened to it. Down in the garden, somebody started testing the speakers, and a love song came floating up through the round window, and I put my face in my hands and laughed quietly at myself.

Two nights. One bed.

This was going to be a very interesting weekend.

Chapter Three

She came out of that bathroom twenty minutes later in the green dress, and I'm just going to say it plainly: I was not ready.

The dress was simple. Thin straps, soft fabric that moved when she moved, a hem that stopped just above her knees. Her hair was still a little damp at the ends, and she'd pinned half of it up so her neck was bare. She stood in the bathroom doorway, barefoot, holding her sandals in one hand, and looked at me.

"Well?" she said.

I took my time. I let my eyes go all the way down to her toes and all the way back up again. Slowly. On purpose. I watched the pink creep up her throat while I did it.

"Come here," I said.

She came. Three small steps, because that's all the room there was. She stopped in front of me where I was still sitting on the bed, and I reached up and adjusted one of her straps, which didn't need adjusting at all. My knuckles brushed her shoulder. She held very still.

"You look beautiful," I said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I told you green."

"You did." She smiled down at me, a little shy. "You were right."

"I usually am. Remember that tonight."

"Yes, Mia."

I swear she said it like that. Yes, Mia. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. I had to look away and pretend to search for my lipstick so she wouldn't see my face.

I wore my black dress. It's the only nice dress I own, and it's a bit tight across the chest, and I'd been planning to spend the whole evening tugging at it. But when I came out of the bathroom, Alessia was sitting on the bed with her sandals on, and she looked up, and her mouth actually fell open a little.

"Oh," she said.

"Oh what?"

"Nothing. You just..." She closed her mouth. Opened it again. "You look really good, Mia."

"Thank you." I held out my hand. "Up."

She took it. I pulled her to her feet, and I didn't let go, and we walked down three flights of stairs like that, her hand small and warm in mine, her sandals clicking on the old stone steps.

"Practice," she whispered, on the second landing.

"Practice," I agreed.

But I don't think either of us was practicing anymore.

The garden was magic. I don't know a better word. The ceremony had been in the late afternoon, out in the wildflower field, and it was short and sweet and Ella cried and her new husband cried and Alessia cried, and I held her hand through all of it and passed her a tissue at exactly the right moment. Afterward, everyone drifted back to the garden behind the hotel, where the little lights were coming on in the trees and long tables were covered in white cloths and candles and jars full of flowers.

There was music. There was food. There was an alarming amount of wine.

And there was Alessia, laughing.

I'd forgotten how much she laughs when she's happy. She laughed with Ella's cousins, with Ella's grandmother, with a little boy in a tiny suit who kept trying to steal the olives off her plate. She danced with the bridesmaids, spinning and spinning in her green dress until the hem flew out like a flower opening. Every now and then she'd look across the garden for me. Just a quick glance, checking that I was still there.

I always was.

"Your girlfriend is adorable," one of the bridesmaids told me, flopping down in the chair next to mine.

"I know," I said.

"How long have you been together?"

I watched Alessia across the dance floor. She caught my eye, and smiled, and tucked her hair behind her ear.

"Feels like forever," I said, and the funny thing was, it wasn't really a lie.

It was getting dark when it happened.

Alessia had come back to the table to rest, flushed from dancing, and she'd sat down so close to me that our knees touched. I'd poured her a glass of water and told her to drink it, and she'd drunk all of it without complaining. Then she put the glass down and went completely still.

"Lessi?"

She didn't answer. She was staring past me, over my shoulder, toward the bar.

I turned to look.

There was a guy standing there. Tall, dark curly hair, a nice suit worn a little too casually, like he wanted everyone to know he didn't care. He was laughing with some other guys, and he had that kind of face that's handsome and knows it.

"That's him," Alessia whispered. "That's Marek."

"Okay."

"He's looking over here."

He was. His eyes had found her across the garden, and I watched them stay there. Slide down her green dress. Come back up. Then he said something to his friends, and one of them laughed, and he started walking our way.

Alessia's hand found my knee under the table and squeezed. Hard.

"Mia," she said, very fast, in a low voice. "Mia, he's coming over. I want to show him. I want him to see. Please."

I turned back to her. Her face was close to mine. Her eyes were huge.

"Show him what, exactly?" I asked. Calm. Slow. Like we had all the time in the world, even though we absolutely didn't.

"You know what."

"Say it."

She bit her lip. "Kiss me. Please. Kiss me."

So I did.

I put my hand on her cheek, and I tipped her face up toward me, and I kissed her.

I have replayed that kiss enough times to know every part of it.

The first thing I noticed was how soft she was. I'd kissed boys before, plenty of them, and boys are scratchy and urgent and they always kiss like they're in a hurry to get somewhere else. Alessia wasn't like that at all. Her lips were soft and warm and tasted like the white wine she'd been sipping, and they moved under mine so gently, like she was asking a question.

The second thing I noticed was that she waited for me.

She didn't push. She didn't take over. She let me lead. When I tilted my head, she tilted hers. When I pressed a little closer, she melted toward me, her body leaning into mine, her hand sliding up from my knee to hold on to my waist. When I slid my fingers back into her hair, she made this tiny sound against my mouth, a little hum, almost a sigh, and every nerve in my body lit up at once.

I should have kept it short. Quick, convincing, done. That was the plan.

I didn't keep it short.

I kissed her slowly. Thoroughly. I took my time with her, the way I take my time with everything, and she let me. She gave herself to it so completely. If I hadn't known better, I'd have sworn she'd been wanting this for years. And maybe that's what got me most. Not that I was kissing her. That she made it so real.

The garden, the music, and Marek all dropped out of my awareness. There was just her mouth and her hair under my fingers and her heart, which I could feel beating fast where her chest pressed against my arm.

When I finally pulled back, it was only an inch. Our foreheads were almost touching. I opened my eyes.

That was when it changed.

I'd known Alessia for years. I'd looked at her face a thousand times. I knew her eyes were green. I'd told her the dress matched them just a few hours before.

But I'd never seen them like this. This close. In the candlelight, with her pupils huge and dark and the green all around them glowing like sea glass held up to the sun. Little gold flecks near the center. Lashes pale at the tips.

I stared. I had no clever response.

"Your eyes," I said, stupidly.

"What about them?" she whispered.

"Nothing. They're just... really green."

She laughed, a soft, shaky breath of a laugh, right against my lips.

"Thank you," she said. "Mia. Thank you."

"For what?"

"For that." She swallowed. "It felt real."

I didn't trust myself to say anything to that. So I just brushed my thumb along her cheekbone, once, and sat back in my chair.

Marek was standing about three meters away, holding two glasses of champagne, looking like someone had just told him the earth was flat.

He stood there for a second. Then he turned around and walked back to the bar. Both glasses still in his hands.

Alessia covered her mouth with both hands and made a sound halfway between a squeak and a giggle.

"Oh my God," she said through her fingers. "Did you see his face?"

"I saw it."

"Mia. Mia, he walked away. He just left."

"Of course he did." I picked up my wine and took a sip. My hand was almost steady. "What was he going to say?"

She took her hands away from her face and grinned at me, and her lips were a little pink and a little swollen, and I thought, I did that. And something warm and possessive curled up in my stomach and made itself comfortable.

After that, I didn't let go of her.

I mean that literally. For the rest of the night, if she was standing next to me, I was holding her hand. If we were walking, my hand was on the small of her back. Right there, at the dip just above where the green dress flared out. Not pushing. Just resting. Just a little bit of pressure, telling her where to go.

And she went.

I could not get past that part. I'd turn toward the dessert table, and before I'd even taken a step, she'd already be turning with me. If I slowed, she slowed. If I stopped to talk to someone, she stopped and leaned against my side and stayed there, quiet and content, until I was ready to move on. I'd press my fingers against her back just slightly, and she'd step forward. I'd draw her closer, and she'd come.

I steered her through that whole party with one hand. Like a dance where only I knew the steps.

"You know you're doing that," she murmured once, while we were waiting in line for cake.

"Doing what?"

"Your hand."

"What about my hand?"

"You're kind of... leading me around."

I looked down at her. "Do you want me to stop?"

She thought about it. Honestly thought about it. Then she shook her head and looked away, very pink.

"No," she said.

"Then I won't." I let my thumb move against her back, just a small circle through the thin fabric. I felt her breath catch. "Cake?"

"Yes, please."

"Chocolate or lemon?"

"You pick."

I picked lemon. She ate all of it.

I did all the fetching, too. That was its own little game, and I loved it. I'd lean down and say, "Stay here," and she'd stay. Right where I'd left her, sitting on the low stone wall by the fountain with her ankles crossed, watching me cross the garden. I'd come back with two glasses of wine, and she'd reach for hers, and I'd hold it just out of reach until she looked up at me.

"What do you say?"

"Thank you, Mia."

"Good girl."

And I'd give it to her.

Nobody noticed. That was the craziest part. We were surrounded by people all night, and nobody saw anything except two girls who were obviously crazy about each other. Ella's aunt told us we were "very sweet together." The bridesmaid from earlier told me I was "so protective, it's cute." One of the waiters winked at us.

No one else had the faintest idea.

They didn't see her waiting for permission. They didn't hear the way I said stay and come here and drink some water first, low and quiet, just for her. They didn't notice that she never once wandered off without looking at me first. That she checked with me before she said yes to a dance, before she took a second glass of champagne, before she sat down. Every time, a little glance. Is it okay?

And every time, I'd nod, or I wouldn't, and she'd do exactly what that nod told her.

It was our secret. Right there in the open, in the middle of a hundred people. And I can't even describe how good that felt. Every time she looked at me like that, I felt a little rush go through me, a little hot spark, right down my spine and into my stomach.

I kept waiting for it to feel strange. It never did.

We drank a lot. I'm not going to pretend we didn't. The wine was good and the night was warm, and somewhere around the speeches I lost count of my glasses, and somewhere around the first dance, Alessia lost count of hers.

She got giggly. Very giggly. She danced with me under the lights, swaying, her arms around my neck and her cheek against my chest, and I held her by the waist and let her lean her whole weight on me.

"You're so tall," she mumbled into my dress.

"I've always been tall."

"I know. But tonight you're extra tall."

"That's the wine."

"It's not the wine." She tilted her head back and looked up at me, a little unfocused, very sweet. "It's you. You're different tonight."

"Different how?"

She thought about it, swaying. "Bossy."

"I've always been bossy."

"Not like this." She smiled, slow and sleepy. "I like this."

I didn't say anything. I just tucked her head back under my chin and held her a little tighter and kept swaying, and I could feel my own heart pounding against her cheek, and I knew she could feel it too.

Then there was the moment with the slap.

To be clear, I had not planned it. My hand moved before my brain caught up.

It was late. The music had gone loud and fast, and Alessia had been dragged off by the bridesmaids for one more song, and she'd come back to me breathless and laughing, her hair falling out of its pins. She grabbed my glass right out of my hand and drank the rest of my wine in one gulp.

"Hey," I said.

"Sorry. Thirsty." She gave the empty glass back to me with a cheeky little grin. Not sorry at all.

"Go get me another one, then."

She sighed dramatically and spun around toward the bar. And as she turned, the green dress swirled out around her legs, and before I'd really thought about it, I reached out and smacked her lightly on the bottom.

Not hard. Just a quick, playful little swat. The kind you'd give a friend.

Alessia froze mid-step.

She spun back around. Her eyes were enormous and her mouth was a perfect O.

"Mia!"

"What?"

"You just--" She glanced around, scandalized, to see if anybody had noticed. Nobody had. "You just slapped my butt!"

"I tapped it."

"You slapped it! In front of everyone!"

"Nobody saw."

"That's not the point!" She put her hands on her hips. Her cheeks were scarlet. "I did not like that."

"No?"

"No! Absolutely not." She lifted her chin. "Not at all."

I just looked at her. Calm. Amused. Waiting.

She held my eyes for about three seconds. Then her gaze dropped. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Tucked her hair behind her ear. Tuck. Tuck.

"Not at all," she repeated, much more quietly.

"Okay," I said.

"I mean it."

"I believe you."

"You don't believe me."

"Not even a little bit," I agreed. "Go get my wine, Lessi."

She opened her mouth to argue. Then she closed it again, and turned around, and walked toward the bar. And I'm telling you, there was something different in the way she walked. A little extra sway. A little extra cat.

When she came back with my glass, she held it out to me and didn't let go when I took it, so that for a second we were both holding it.

"I really didn't like it," she said, looking somewhere around my collarbone.

"Of course you didn't."

"Good." A pause. "Just so you know."

"I know."

She let go of the glass. Then she stepped closer and leaned against my side, and slipped her hand into mine, and laced our fingers together. And she stayed there, warm and quiet and pressed against me, for the rest of the song.

Here is a secret. I'd liked it too. A lot. The little shock on her face, the outrage, the blush. The way she'd protested so hard, and then hadn't moved away from me at all. I'd liked it so much I didn't trust myself to do it again.

Not yet, anyway.

By midnight, the party was winding down. The candles on the tables had burned low. Some of the older guests had gone to bed, and the people still dancing were mostly just leaning on each other and swaying. Ella and her husband were sitting on the edge of the fountain with their shoes off, kissing like nobody was watching.

Alessia was half asleep on my shoulder.

We were sitting on the low stone wall again, the two of us. My arm was around her. Her head was tucked into the curve of my neck, and her breathing had gone slow and soft, and every now and then she'd make a little contented sound and nuzzle closer.

Across the garden, I saw Marek. He was leaning against the bar with his tie undone, alone, staring into his drink. He looked up and saw us. I held his eyes for a moment, very calmly, and let my hand slide slowly up and down Alessia's bare arm.

He looked away first.

I should probably say I was not proud of how good that felt. Fine--I was a little proud.

"Lessi," I said softly.

"Mmm."

"Are you asleep?"

"No," she mumbled, with her eyes closed.

"Liar."

She smiled against my neck. "Maybe a little."

I looked down at her. Her pins were half out and her hair was a mess and her mascara had smudged a tiny bit at the corner of one eye. There was a lemon-cake crumb on her collarbone. I brushed it off with my thumb, and she shivered.

And I thought about the room upstairs. The sloped ceiling. The little round window. That one small bed.

My stomach did something complicated.

"Time for bed," I said.

She opened her eyes and looked up at me. Green. Even in the dark, even sleepy and tipsy, so green.

"Okay," she whispered.

Not already? Not five more minutes. Not anything. Just okay. Like wherever I was taking her, she'd follow.

I stood up and pulled her to her feet. She wobbled. I caught her. And with my hand pressed warm and steady against the small of her back, I steered her across the garden, past the fountain and the low candles and the last few dancers, toward the old stone stairs and the room at the top of them.

She didn't ask where we were going. She didn't need to.

She just leaned into my hand and let me lead.

Chapter Four

I will be honest. I don't remember climbing those stairs.

I remember her hand in mine. I remember her giggling on the second landing because her sandal strap came loose, and me kneeling down on the cold stone to fix it while she held on to my shoulder for balance. I remember looking up at her from down there, and her looking down at me, and both of us going quiet for a second.

Then I stood up, and we climbed the last flight, and I unlocked the door.

The room was dark and warm. The little round window was open, and the last bit of music from the garden floated up through it, soft and far away. I didn't turn on the big light. I switched on the lamp by the bed instead, and it made everything gold.

Alessia kicked off her sandals and stood in the middle of the floorboards, swaying a little, looking at me.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. Same spot as that afternoon. I knew it, and she knew it.

"Well," I said.

She smiled. Slow. A little nervous. "Well."

"You remember what you did this afternoon?"

"I remember."

"Do it again." I leaned back on my hands. "But this time, all the way."

I heard her breath catch. I watched her understand. And I waited for her to laugh, or roll her eyes, or say Mia, you're drunk.

She didn't. She bit her lip and looked down at the floor, and then back up at me, through her lashes.

"All the way?" she whispered.

"Only if you want to." I kept my voice low and even. "You can say no. You know that."

"I know."

"So?"

A long pause. The music downstairs changed to something slow.

"I don't want to say no," she said.

She started with her hair. That surprised me. She reached up and pulled the pins out one by one, and dropped them on the little table, click, click, click, and her hair came tumbling down around her shoulders, messy and soft from dancing.

"Good," I said. "Now the dress."

She reached behind her for the zipper. Then she stopped, and turned around, and looked at me over her shoulder.

"Can you...?"

I didn't move. "Come here."

She backed up until she was standing between my knees, her back to me. I took my time. I gathered her hair in one hand and moved it over her shoulder, and the back of her neck was right there, pale and warm. I could see goosebumps rising on it. I took the little zipper between my fingers and drew it down slowly. All the way down, past her shoulder blades, to the small of her back. To the spot where my hand had been all night.

I put my palm there again. Skin this time, not fabric.

She made a very small sound.

"Turn around," I said.

She turned. The dress was loose now, held up only by her hands pressed against her chest. She was blushing so hard I could see it in the lamplight, red all the way down her throat.

"Let it go, Lessi."

She hesitated. Just one second. Her eyes searched my face, checking, asking.

I nodded.

She let it go.

The green dress slid down her body and pooled around her feet, and she stepped out of it like she was stepping out of water. She was in her underwear again, the same little set from that afternoon, and she stood there with her arms hanging at her sides, fingers twitching, like she desperately wanted to cover herself and was waiting to see if I'd let her.

I didn't.

"Hands behind your back."

She put them there. It pushed her chest forward a little. She noticed, and blushed even harder.

"You're shaking," I said.

"I'm a little cold."

"You're not cold."

"I'm a little nervous," she admitted.

"I know." I reached out and took her wrist, gently, and pulled her one step closer. "You're okay. I'm right here. You're doing so well."

She closed her eyes when I said it. Like the words were something warm she could wrap herself in.

"Keep going," I said softly.

She reached behind her for the clasp of her bra. Her fingers fumbled with it, once, twice. Then it came loose, and she slid the straps down her arms and held it against herself for a moment, and then, without me having to say anything, she let it drop to the floor.

I'd seen her in a bikini before. Of course I had. We'd been to the lake a hundred times. But this was different. She was small and pale and perfect, and her nipples were pink and tight, and she was trembling. And she was standing there like that because I'd told her to.

I cannot really explain what that did to me. It was like something low in my belly had been tied in a knot all day, and suddenly somebody pulled the string.

"Look at me," I said. My voice came out rough. I cleared my throat. "Look at me, Lessi."

She opened her eyes.

"You're beautiful."

"Mia..."

"You are. Say thank you."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Last thing."

She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her panties. She looked at me one more time. And then she slid them down her thighs, past her knees, and stepped out of them, and straightened up, and put her hands behind her back again without being asked.

Completely naked. In the gold lamplight. Under the sloped ceiling. Standing between my knees.

Neither of us said anything for a long time.

I just looked. I let myself. The soft curve of her hips, the little dip of her belly button, the neat patch of pale blonde hair between her thighs. Her knees pressed together. Her toes curling against the floorboards.

"Turn around," I said finally. "Slowly."

She turned in a slow circle, the way she had that afternoon, like a dancer on a music box. When she faced me again, she was breathing fast.

"Mia," she said, in a low voice. "Can I... I'm all sweaty from dancing. Can I take a shower first?"

First. She said first. I don't think she even noticed. I noticed.

"Yes," I said. "Go."

She practically ran.

I sat on the bed and listened to the water start, and my heart would not slow down.

I would like to say what I did next was a clever, planned-out thing. It wasn't. It was the wine, and the night, and some little devil that had woken up inside me in that park two weeks ago and hadn't gone back to sleep.

The bathroom door didn't lock. It barely even closed. I pushed it open quietly. Steam everywhere. Behind the shower curtain I could see her shape, small and blurry, humming that slow song from downstairs.

Her clean clothes were folded on the little stool. Her pajamas, fresh underwear. The one towel hung on the hook.

I took all of it.

I tiptoed out, shut the door behind me, and stuffed everything into my suitcase except the towel, which I folded over my lap. Then I sat back on the bed, crossed my legs, and waited.

The water stopped.

Silence.

A little rustle. Then: "Mia?"

"Yes?"

"Where are my things?"

"What things?"

"Mia." The door cracked open an inch. One green eye peeked out at me through the steam. "My clothes. And the towel. There's no towel."

"Huh," I said. "That's strange."

"You took them!"

"Did I?"

"It's sitting on your lap!"

I looked down at the towel like I'd never seen it before. "Oh. So it is."

"Give it back!"

"Come and get it."

The eye disappeared. I heard her muttering something in Slovak, which she only does when she's really flustered. Then the door opened all the way, and she came out.

Dripping wet. Completely naked. Her hair dark and slicked back, water running down her shoulders and between her breasts and down her thighs, little puddles forming on the floorboards. Her arms were wrapped around herself, one across her chest and one hand covering herself between her legs, and her whole body was covered in goosebumps.

"Mia," she said, and her voice went all wobbly and pleading. "Please. I'm freezing."

"Hands."

"Mia."

"You know the rule."

She whimpered. Actually whimpered. And then, slowly, she let her arms fall to her sides, and moved her hands behind her back, and stood there shivering in front of me, water dripping off the tips of her hair.

"Please can I have my towel," she said. "Please, Mia. Pretty please. I'll do anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything," she said, and then she realized what she'd said and turned crimson, which on wet, pale skin is really something to see.

I stood up and shook out the towel.

"Come here," I said. "I'll do it."

She stepped into my arms, and I wrapped the towel around her shoulders and pulled her against me.

And then I dried her.

I did it slowly, because that's how I do everything, and because I wanted to. I started with her hair, rubbing it gently between the folds of the towel while she stood with her forehead pressed against my chest. I dried her face, dabbing at her cheeks, her closed eyelids, her lips. Her neck. Her shoulders. I knelt down on the floor in front of her and dried her arms one at a time, each finger.

"Lift your arms."

She lifted them. I dried her sides, her ribs, under her arms. She giggled and squirmed because she's ticklish there.

"Hold still."

She held still. Her giggle turned into a shaky breath.

I dried her breasts. Gently. Through the towel, cupping each one, and I felt her nipples pressing hard against the cloth, and I heard her breath stop completely. I moved down over her belly. Her hips. I knelt lower and dried her legs, her thighs, the backs of her knees, her calves, her ankles, one small foot and then the other, while she held on to my shoulders for balance.

Then I looked up at her.

She was looking down at me with her lips parted and her eyes dark and enormous.

"Turn around," I said softly.

She did. I dried her back. Her shoulder blades, the long line of her spine, the dimples just above her bottom. Her bottom itself, round and small and pink from the hot water. I patted it once through the towel. Light. Teasing.

"Mia," she breathed.

"You didn't like it the first time," I reminded her.

"I didn't," she said. "I still don't."

But she pushed back against my hand, just a little, when she said it.

I stood up, and wrapped the towel all the way around her, and tucked the corner in over her chest. Then I tipped her chin up with one finger.

"Thank you, Mia," she whispered, before I could even ask.

"Good girl."

Her knees literally wobbled. I caught her by the waist.

"Bed," I said. "You're exhausted."

"Can I have my pajamas?"

I thought about it.

"No," I said.

She stared at me. Then she laughed, a tiny disbelieving laugh, and shook her head, and didn't argue.

I changed into an oversized T-shirt and my underwear while she sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in her towel, watching me. I didn't tell her not to.

When I turned off the lamp, the only light came from the moon through the round window. Silver on the quilt.

That bed really was tiny. I lay down on my side, my back to the wall, and pulled the quilt open.

"Come here."

She slipped the towel off. I heard it drop to the floor. Then she climbed in, naked, and lay down with her back to me, and there was no room at all, nowhere to go except closer. So I put my arm around her waist and pulled her back against me.

Her skin was still a little damp and cool from the shower. My body was warm. She sighed when she settled against me, her bottom fitting into my lap, her back against my chest, her damp hair smelling like the hotel shampoo, which smelled like oranges.

I'm the big spoon. Obviously. I'm the big spoon in all ways.

"Warm enough?" I whispered.

"Mm-hm."

"Okay?"

A long pause. Then her hand found mine where it lay on her stomach, and she laced our fingers together.

"More than okay," she said.

I lay awake for a long time. Listening to her breathe. Feeling her heartbeat slow down under my wrist. Wondering what on earth I was going to do in the morning.

Then I fell asleep, too.

When I woke up, the light had changed. Pale and early. Birds outside the round window. Somewhere far below, somebody was clattering dishes in the hotel kitchen.

It took me a second to understand where I was. And then another second to understand where my hand was.

At some point in the night, it had slipped up from her stomach. It was cupping her breast. Her small, soft, warm, completely bare breast. Her nipple was right there against my palm, and as I lay frozen, slowly realizing, I felt it harden.

Oh no, I thought. Oh no no no.

Very carefully, I started to slide my hand away.

Her hand closed over mine and held it there.

I stopped breathing.

"Don't," she whispered.

"Lessi--"

"Don't move it." Her voice was thick with sleep, and very quiet, and very sure. "Please. Touch me, Mia."

My heart was pounding so hard I was sure she could feel it against her back. "Are you awake? Like, properly awake?"

"Yes."

"And not drunk?"

A tiny laugh. "Not drunk."

"Because last night we--"

"I know." She turned her head on the pillow, just enough that I could see the side of her face, her cheek flushed pink. "I'm not drunk now. I know what I'm saying. I want you to touch me."

"I've never..." I swallowed. "I've never been with a girl, Lessi. I don't know what I'm doing."

"Me neither," she whispered. "We can find out together."

I lay there for a moment, my hand on her breast and her hand over mine. I was scared. I'll admit it. My mouth was dry and my fingers were trembling. Not because I didn't want this. Because I wanted it so much, and it was her. My best friend. If I got it wrong...

Then I felt her press back against me. Just slightly. Asking.

I moved my thumb.

Just once. A slow little circle around her nipple.

She gasped. Her whole body arched. And all of a sudden, I wasn't scared anymore.

We went so slowly at first. I think we were both afraid of breaking something.

I touched her breast carefully, learning it, the weight of it in my hand, the way her nipple tightened when I brushed it and the way she sighed when I squeezed gently. I pressed my lips to the back of her neck, and then her shoulder, and she shivered all over.

"Is this okay?" I whispered against her skin.

"Yes."

"And this?" I rolled her nipple between my fingers, softly.

"Yes." Her voice went high. "Yes, Mia."

"Turn over. I want to see you."

She rolled onto her back. In that tiny bed it meant she was right underneath me, and I propped myself up on one elbow and looked down at her. Her hair spread across the pillow. Her cheeks pink. Her eyes so green in the morning light. The quilt had slipped down to her waist, and she didn't try to pull it up.

I leaned down and kissed her.

It wasn't like the kiss in the garden. That one had been a performance, even if it turned real halfway through. This one was just for us. Soft and careful and a little clumsy at first, our noses bumping, both of us laughing nervously into each other's mouths. Then it wasn't clumsy anymore. Then it was deep and slow, and her hands came up to hold my face, and her lips opened under mine, and I tasted her tongue for the first time.

I pulled back and looked at her.

"Arms up," I said. Quiet. Low.

Her eyes went dark. She lifted her arms above her head, on the pillow.

I took both of her wrists in one hand and pinned them there. Gently. Not tight. She could have pulled free any time she wanted.

She didn't want to. I could see it in her face. She went soft all over, like I'd flipped a switch. Her lips parted. Her whole body relaxed into the mattress.

"Is this okay?" I asked.

"Please," she breathed. "Please don't let go."

"I won't."

I pulled my T-shirt off over my head with my free hand. Her eyes went straight to my chest, and she made a sound, a little helpless "oh," and I felt a rush of pride go through me.

"You like what you see?"

"Yes," she whispered. "God, yes. Can I touch?"

"Not yet."

She whimpered. I smiled.

I lowered myself down on top of her, and the first moment our bare skin touched, both of us gasped out loud. My breasts pressing against hers. My hips against her hips. Her heart racing under mine. It was so different from anything I'd ever felt. Everything soft, everything warm.

I kissed down her neck. Her collarbone. I took her nipple in my mouth and she cried out and arched off the bed, and I held her wrists a little firmer, and kept going, sucking and licking until she was squirming beneath me, her legs moving restlessly under the quilt.

"Mia. Mia, please."

"Please what?"

"I don't know. Please anything."

"Use your words, Lessi."

"Touch me," she gasped. "Down there. Please touch me."

I let my free hand slide down. Over her ribs, over her soft belly, slowly, slowly, giving her time to say stop. She didn't. She parted her legs for me instead.

I touched her.

She was wet. So wet. Soft and slippery and hot under my fingers, and I just stopped for a moment, stunned, because I'd done this to her. Just me. Just my voice and my hands.

"Oh," I said, like an idiot.

"Don't laugh," she whispered, mortified.

"I'm not laughing." I kissed her cheek. "I'm just... Lessi. You're so wet."

"That's your fault."

"Good."

I moved my fingers. Carefully. I didn't really know what I was doing, but I knew what I liked, and I started there. Slow circles around her clit, light at first. Watching her face the whole time. When she gasped, I did that again. When she bit her lip, I went a little faster. When she tilted her hips up into my hand, I pressed harder.

"Like this?" I murmured.

"Yes. Yes, just like... oh. Yes."

"Look at me."

She opened her eyes. They were wet and dazed. She looked up at me like I was the only thing in the world.

"Mistress," she whispered.

I stopped.

So did she. Her eyes went wide. Her face went scarlet. "I'm sorry--I didn't mean--it just came out--"

"Say it again."

She stared at me.

"Say it again," I said softly. "I liked it."

Her lips trembled. "Mistress."

It went through me like electricity. Right down my spine and between my legs. I had to close my eyes for a second.

"Good girl," I said, and started moving my fingers again.

She came apart after that. She said it over and over, mistress, mistress, please, pulling against my hand on her wrists just so she could feel me hold her down. I slid one finger inside her, carefully, and she moaned so loud I put my mouth over hers to keep the whole hotel from hearing. I felt her squeezing around my finger. I added a second one. Curled them, the way I curl mine when I'm alone. Kept my thumb on her clit.

"You're doing so well," I whispered into her mouth. "You're being so good for me."

"Mia... Mistress... I'm going to..."

"Can you come for me?"

"Yes. Yes, please, can I--"

"Yes. Come for me, Lessi."

And she did. She went completely tense under me, her back arching, her thighs clamping around my hand, and she let out this long, high, shaking cry against my lips. I felt her pulse around my fingers again and again. I didn't stop until she was gasping and twitching and pushing weakly at my wrist because it was too much.

Then I let go of her hands.

She lay there, flushed and limp and panting, her hair stuck to her forehead, staring up at the sloped ceiling.

"Oh my God," she said.

"Mm-hm."

"Oh my God, Mia."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. I was so proud of myself I could have burst.

"You okay?" I asked, and brushed the damp hair off her forehead.

She turned her head and looked at me, and her eyes filled with tears all of a sudden, and I panicked.

"Lessi? Hey. Hey, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

"No." She laughed, wet and shaky, and wiped her eyes. "No. It was perfect. You were perfect. I'm just... I've wanted that for so long. And I didn't even know it."

I didn't know what to say. So I just kissed her. Slowly. Gently. Like I was promising something.

When we pulled apart, she looked up at me, and something mischievous came into her face.

"Mistress?"

"Yes?"

"May I touch you now?" She bit her lip. "Please?"

I'd been aching this whole time. Honestly, I'd been aching since the park. I lay down on my back next to her, my heart hammering, and I said, "Yes. You may."

She was so careful with me. More careful than I'd been with her.

She kissed me first. Then she kissed my neck, my shoulders, and then she looked at my breasts for a long moment, in a sort of awe, before she touched them. Both hands. Her small fingers sinking into my skin.

"They're so big," she whispered.

"I know." I smiled. "Do you like them?"

"I love them." She bent and kissed one nipple, shyly, and then looked up at me for permission.

"Keep going."

She did. She took her time. She licked and kissed and sucked until I was breathing hard and my hands were fisted in the sheet. Every few seconds she'd glance up to check on me, and I'd nod, or I'd say "good," or I'd say "harder," and she'd do exactly what I told her.

Even then. Even with her mouth on my body and me falling apart under her, she was still listening to me. Still obeying. I can't tell you how much that turned me on.

"Your hand," I said, my voice ragged. "Now."

She slid her hand down my belly and under the waistband of my underwear. I lifted my hips and she pulled them off, all the way, and tossed them somewhere. Then she touched me.

I was soaked. She gasped when she felt it.

"Mia," she whispered. "Is that... because of me?"

"All because of you."

She looked so happy I almost cried myself.

She touched me exactly the way I'd touched her. Slow circles, light at first. Watching my face. Learning. I put my hand over hers and showed her. Here. Like this. A little faster. Good girl. That's it. She learned so quickly. Of course she did. She's always been a quick learner.

"Inside," I said. "Two fingers."

She pushed them into me, slowly, and I groaned, and her eyes went dark.

"Like that, Mistress?"

"Exactly like that." I grabbed her by the back of the neck, gently, and pulled her face down to mine. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

"I won't," she breathed against my lips. "I won't, I promise."

She didn't. She curled her fingers inside me and kept her thumb moving, and I held her by the neck and kissed her and kissed her, and the pressure built and built inside me, hot and tight and impossible. And she kept whispering to me, Mistress, please, please come for me, I want to feel you come, in that sweet shy voice, and that's what did it. Hearing her beg to make me feel good.

I came so hard I saw stars. My back arched off the mattress. I cried out her name into her mouth. I clamped my thighs around her hand and held her there, and she kept moving her fingers gently through all of it until I was shaking and gasping and finally, finally still.

After, we lay tangled in that tiny bed, sweaty and sticky and laughing for no reason.

The sun had come up properly. The birds were loud. Downstairs, someone was setting out breakfast, and I could smell coffee drifting up through the round window.

Alessia lay with her head on my chest, drawing little patterns on my stomach with her finger. I played with her hair. Neither of us said anything for a long time.

"So," she said finally.

"So."

"I'm not playing a lesbian anymore, am I?"

I laughed so hard the bed creaked. "No, Lessi. I think that part is over."

"What about you?"

I thought about it. About the park, and the car, and the paprika chips. The green dress. The kiss under the fairy lights. The way she'd waited for me all night, every glance a question. The way she'd said mistress this morning, like it had been sitting on her tongue for years, waiting.

"I think," I said slowly, "I'm whatever this is."

She lifted her head and looked at me. Those eyes. Sea glass and sunlight.

"Me too," she said.

I traced her bottom lip with my thumb, and she kissed it.

"Mia?"

"Mm?"

"When we get home." She hesitated, blushing. "Are you still going to be in charge?"

I looked down at her. My best friend. My girl. Naked in my arms and waiting, like always, for my answer.

I smiled. Slowly. And let my voice go low and soft and certain, the way it only ever does for her.

"Lessi," I said. "I'm always going to be in charge."

She sighed, a happy little sound, and tucked her head back under my chin.

"Good," she whispered.

And here is a secret. That was the moment I knew it was never going back to normal.

Honestly? I didn't want it to.