Under the Lights

I open my mouth to say yes, but I’m not sure it is. I think it is. And when her fingers brush the right spot over the fly of my jean skirt, it’s obvious my body thinks it’s plenty okay.

But there’s no going back after that, is there? If we keep going, if we take this further, I feel like that makes it official. Not just me and Bri, but everything. That I like girls. That I’m—

“Guess not,” she says, but she’s smiling as she slides her hand back up to my waist, settling it in the curve there. “See? Only what you’re okay with, Park. Always. I promise.”

When she kisses me this time, it’s gentler, a step back. And I know it’s not what I want. This girl — this fun and crazy and thoughtful girl, this careful girl, this girl who’s making my entire body tingle with nothing but kisses and fingertips on my skin — does things to my head and my heart I didn’t even know were possible. I don’t want to push her back because of a label, because I’m scared. I want the fact that I’ve finally figured out what I want to matter. I’ve spent so much of my life playing someone else, and tonight, with her, I’m just me.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, though I’m trembling, and I know she can feel it. “It is. Please.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I know. I’m a little terrified,” I admit. “But I swear, I want to.”

“Then we will, at some point.” She kisses my collarbone, and it’s nice, but it feels like she’s comforting me or something.

I don’t want to be comforted.

I want to know what I’ve been missing.

And just like that, the shaking stops. “Bri. Please.” My voice sounds ragged, breathy, just short of begging. Embarrassingly desperate. Which is exactly how I feel.

“Jesus, Park.” She’d been bracing herself over me on an elbow, but now she collapses on my side, laughing into the crook of my neck. “I’m trying to be noble here, but you’re killing me.”

“Good.”

She rolls up and places her palms on the mattress, one on either side of my head. Those light-green eyes that used to be so unsettling are blazing as they meet mine. “Really?” she says flatly.

“Really.”

“Really.”

“Real—”

Her mouth crashes down on mine, and I know even before her hand finds my thigh and starts a slow slide up the inside that there is definitely no going back.

I focus on the soft warmth of her mouth, the way her tongue is sweeping mine, while her fingers forge a path of fire up to the lace edge of my boyshorts. Don’t stop, I think as she slides just the tips of her fingers beneath them. Don’t—

My entire body arches off the bed as she brushes against me, and my moan is pathetic against the lips that are still pinning me down. They curve into that smile I know so well, and she nips at my lower lip. Her voice is huskier than I’ve ever heard it when she says, “Huh. Guess you weren’t kidding about wanting to.”

I want to come back with a smartass reply, but the truth is my brain is a fog. For all her teasing, when her eyes flit down my body and then back up, I can see the wonder in them. She may like to tease, but I know this means as much to her as it does to me. So I give up and let my eyes flutter closed again, letting the rhythmic stroking of her fingertips soothe me until I can gather myself.

And then she asks, “Still okay?” sounding genuinely worried I might say it’s not. But it’s so, so much better than okay. Especially when she asks.

Words are still failing me, but I reach down and tug up my skirt, giving her better access — the only response I can manage right now. She sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth, and then I feel her fingers slide free.

My eyelids flutter open. “I wasn’t—” The rest of the words die on my tongue when I feel her fingers curling against my waistband. She wasn’t stopping; she was undressing me. Completely.

It shouldn’t be a big deal; I wear bikinis on set all the time, get photographed in next to nothing, have to change in front of people constantly. Even getting bikini waxed every two weeks on the dot is a standard occupational hazard.

But this is so not that.

And still…

I lift my hips off the bed, and her eyes never leave mine as she slides the skirt and boyshorts free — not even when they get stuck on my ankle on the way off, and we both laugh, just a little, breathless.

And then she’s kissing me again, and her hand is there again, soft and cool and teasing as it strokes and circles until I’m so dizzy I swear I might just pass out. Finally, I turn away so I can reclaim my mouth. “Just do it already.”

She laughs. “Well, that’s romantic.”

“You know what I mean.” I sound ridiculously helpless, and it makes her smile widen, just enough to show that dimple. “Bri, just…”

“Yeah,” she says, the hand that’s stroking me stilling while the other one sweeps damp black strands of my hair off my face. “I know what you mean.”