Sara is at least a little ashamed to admit that she had really hoped that her willingness to drape herself like a bridge over water for Olive to step on had more to do with her being a really fucking amazing friend —which she is— than her secretly hoping that Olive would eventually trip and fall and end up skin to skin with her… But then, Olive had kissed her (or Olive had practically invited her to kiss her and then kissed her back and then ran back to her boyfriend like immediately after, but whatever, different story and all that) and Porky had sniffed out her abnormality like a hound dog within minutes of prolonged exposure to her and Adele had Facebook friend requested her—and she honestly wasn’t being creepy or anything but she did browse her profile and see things like ‘interested in: women’ and ‘likes: Tegan and Sara’ and there was that really interesting photo album labeled ‘Pride 2014’.
And now there’s this party and there’s Porky insisting that maybe her crush (okay, so maybe she went through all of her Facebook pictures) will be there and there’s this heaviness in her chest that sort of makes her feel like she might implode soon.
And of course Adele is at the party. Like right there. On the dance floor. Dancing like the thudding bassline is tugging at her limbs.
She’s fucking captivating.
And in an instant, she’s coming closer—close enough that when she whispers, “hey kitty,” in Sara’s ear, Sara feels it like her heart has suddenly dropped right into the pits of her gut—and maybe even lower.
Adele takes her hands, whisks her through writhing, sweaty bodies, right past the dance floor, right past the make-shift bar and kisses her.
It’s really gentle at first, dance music blasting around them as fingertips slip against the nape of her neck, soft lips press against her chin, her cheek, the edge of her lips. And all of a sudden, it’s not so gentle at all; it’s lips against lips, ragged breaths, lipstick smearing, the lingering flavor of rum being sucked off her tongue, fingers intertwining, pushing and pulling.
They stumble into a room that Sara’s pretty sure serves no particularly purpose, but Adele hops up onto a wooden ledge and Sara follows and okay, maybe the room really shouldn’t have any purpose but this—but Adele kissing her like no boy ever has before.
Kissing Olive had been one thing; it was lovely and soft and exciting and mostly plagued with the worry that Olive would push her away any second and proclaim her disgusting for even thinking it. This—Adele roughly yanking up her shirt, fingers curling around her hips, teeth nipping at her earlobe—feels like floating.
She doesn’t even realize just how wet she is until Adele is peeling her panties away from slick skin, nipping up her inner thighs like she can possibly get her any more ready than she already is.
She isn’t ready though—could never be ready. Could never have anticipated the way Adele grabs at her hips, pulls her right against the wet warmth of her mouth like maybe she doesn’t even care about breathing—like maybe breathing isn’t as important as pressing her tongue into Sara as far as it will go.
Sara’s been with a few boys before but this is hardly even comparable. There is nothing hesitant or fumbling about the way Adele fucks her— about the way she alternates between curling her tongue inside her and drawing back to pull Sara by the hips and drag her against the flat of her tongue.
Sara’s desperate—trembling, back arched, clit throbbing, fingers scraping against wood, absolutely desperate for it and Adele has no qualms about giving it to her; about pulling her swollen clit between her lips and sucking so hard that it makes a noise that cannot be disguised as anything but obscene.
Sara comes. Hard. Writhing against the tidal wave of pleasure that passes over her as Adele switches to licking at her softly—making her twitch with the sparks of lingering pleasure her tongue incites.
She’s still trembling, still breathless, still tingling all over when Adele slides back up her body and kisses her—her tongue tasting of something that Sara could quite frankly get used to.
“You okay, kitty?” Adele asks, still stroking at her, soft pads of her fingertips replacing her tongue, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure.
Sara smiles, lazy and sated, pressing her lips against Adele’s like she can somehow drive her feeling of complete and utter satisfaction into her.
“I’m okay,” she breathes against her lips, feeling far more than okay—feeling far more than okay has ever felt; far more than she has ever felt. She feels strung out on pleasure—like she may never need to toke again if this is a viable alternative.
She can’t remember ever feeling anything but awkward and more than a little self-conscious after sex, but this—this overwhelming feeling of bliss—if this is what sex is really supposed to feel like, then she can’t wait to tell Porky that she’s definitely a “lesbitron”.