I Won’t Touch, Promise

The smell always hits me first. The stale, piss-flavored beer soaked into the floorboards that mingles with the sweat pouring out of every orifice to create a humid halo above the masses.

It’s disgusting.

I love it.

I came to the bar alone tonight, but that doesn’t mean much when you’re queer and live in a small city. I manage to order a beer without making eye contact with anyone I know, but I only last 30 seconds once I start weaving through the sweaty crowd on the dance floor. As I skirt a couple of gay boys dry humping to the thumping bass favored by the DJ, my friend K waves me over to their spot in the corner.

We hug, and the shots I took before walking to the bar mean I’m drunk enough not to cringe at the sweat-slicked arms wrapped around me. Besides, the music is good and it’s crowded enough that all I want to do is dance. I pull back and let the sound wrap around me, closing my eyes and letting the week wash away.

When I open my eyes, two people have joined K. One is K’s girlfriend, but I haven’t seen the other one before. She’s cute, wearing a short-sleeve button-up and pulling off a bowl cut. When she turns to look at me, my breath catches in my throat and a thrill shoots down my spine. Okay, maybe cute was an understatement. Long, dark lashes frame brown doe eyes—all set over full lips that ache to be kissed. So, she’s very cute. My mistake.

K is drunk enough that she doesn’t notice me straight-up staring at her friend. When she introduces everyone, it’s without the awkward underpinning of a set-up. Thank god.

“This is my friend, R,” shouts K, jabbing a chin at the more-than-cute brunette. R’s eyes crinkle as if she’s trying to hide a smile, and I realize I’m being too obvious. I take a drink from my forgotten can of beer as K reaches forward to tug on a piece of my hair. “And this is B.”

We exchange hellos and I don’t think I imagine the way R’s gaze lingers on my lips as we do. K is quickly distracted by a friend across the room, and R and I are left alone amongst the crowd. I send up a quick prayer that I haven’t totally misread this situation and move closer, trusting that I can blame it on how hard the music makes it to be heard.

“Do you want to dance with me?” I half-shout, leaning in close to R’s ear. I catch a hint of the whiskey she’s been drinking and the cologne she must’ve applied before coming out. It makes me want to bury my face in her neck.

“I’m here with someone else,” says R, but her lips brush my ear as she says it and I shiver. I should take her at her word, but her hand has found my waist—and it makes it difficult to pull back.

“Just for a little bit. I promise not to touch,” I say, all innocence as I dance away from her, holding up both hands before clasping them behind my back. She grins before she can stop herself, and I tilt my head to the side—an offer and an invitation.

She closes the space between us, and I bite my lip as she begins to move. She’s a good dancer—following the beat with ease, eyes closing every so often only to find mine as soon as she opens them. It’s hypnotizing and I regret offering not to touch as I move my body as close to her as I dare. I want to bury my hands in her hair, pin one leg between her thighs—but if not touching is what it takes to stay close, then I’ll clasp my hands together hard enough to hurt.

It doesn’t hurt that the longer we draw this out—this will-we-won’t-we game—the hotter it gets. I wonder if she’s feeling this in her cunt the way I am. I wonder if every second that passes is also an internal struggle to be good and not break the rule we so foolishly set in place. Maybe it’s just me.

Too soon, the song ends, and the moment is broken. R grins and it’s lopsided in a way that makes me want to push her up against a wall. Well, that or grab a Lyft and take her home so that we can fully enjoy each other.

“I should find my date,” says R, and I don’t think I imagine how flushed her cheeks are.

“Yeah, you should,” I say. It’s obvious neither of us believes what we’re saying, but that doesn’t stop her from leaving me alone in the crowd with one final glance.

My eyes follow her retreating form until she’s swallowed by the crowd. Luckily, K has returned with fresh drinks, and she’s easily pulled into being my dance partner. I glance around the bar every couple of minutes trying to spy R’s telltale bowl cut. After what feels like the tenth time, I resign myself to the knowledge that she must’ve left with her date. Whatever. It’s not like I could’ve taken her home anyway.

I push away the twinge of regret that I hadn’t asked for her number as I offer an excuse to K and make my way to the bathroom. The line is miraculously short—the beauty of gender-neutral bathrooms—and I cross the threshold into the actual bathroom as soon as I get in line.

And there she is.

R’s at the sink, running water through sweat-crusted hair, and I have a moment to admire the drunken intensity with which she’s trying to fix something unsalvageable. Then her eyes find mine in the mirror.

We stare at each other for a beat, then two, before our focus is broken by an opening stall door. A high femme dyke strides out in heels and a perfect red lip, and before I know what’s happening, R pushes me into the stall.

I spin around to face her. “What are you—”

“What do you think?” asks R, and then her lips are crushing mine and I don’t think about R’s date or how pissed everyone in line is going to be or how I’m not supposed to touch—I only react.

I push her against the stall door and slip my tongue into her willing mouth, grabbing for her hair as my other hand tightens around her waist. I draw her closer to me until our cunts touch through our jeans, groaning low and heavy as we press into each other. Our mouths are undoubtedly bruising each other as our hands roam freely over fabric and flesh.

“Can I?” I breathe, fingers curled at the edge of her shirt.

She doesn’t respond, just grabs my hand and slides it under her shirt until I’m holding one of her tits and fuck, they’re soft and full. It takes everything not to dig my nails into her. I push her shirt up instead, tongue lapping at a nipple. I should be glad she’s so quiet, but all I want is full-throated gasps and moans. I nip softly at the flesh—a question hoping for a response.

“Please,” moans R and it’s everything I need. I latch onto the skin under my lips, trailing bites across her tits hard enough to raise welts as my hands explore her stomach. I drag my nails against her flesh and every jump and sigh fuels me further until I’m so frenzied that I’m sure I’m leaving marks.

R grabs my right hand, drags it to the zipper of her jeans, says, “Please fuck me.”

I growl in response, quickly undoing the button and pulling down the zipper enough to sneak a hand inside her underwear. I wrap my hand around her mound, the tips of my fingers ending at her cunt. She’s so wet that I bite her breast too hard, and she yelps.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, cringing as my hand stills in apology.

“It’s fine,” says R, near breathless as she pulls at my forearm. “Please don’t stop.”

I answer by plunging two fingers into her. She swallows a cry, hands wrapped around my shoulders as my fingers move inside her. Fuck, she feels good. I curl my fingers forward until she moans softly enough that I know I’ve found the right spot, and I rock against it over and over again.

She buries her face in the crook of my neck, sucking hard at the sensitive flesh. I fuck her rougher in response, slipping another finger inside her cunt as she trembles against the door. I suck her tits harder too, desperate to make her come before we leave the stall.

And then she does—liquid spilling over my hand as her mouth forms a large O against my shoulder. I keep moving, pulling as much out of her as I can, before she stills. Slowly, carefully, I pull myself out of her, unable to stop the grin spreading across my face as she shakily zips up her jeans. We stare at each other in dazed delight for a long moment.

“Everyone is going to be pissed,” I say as the rush of making R come finally fades enough to realize what we just did—and where.

“Yep,” says R, serious for a moment before breaking into infectious giggles. She shrugs. “They’ve seen worse.”

I bark out a laugh, twining my fingers through hers as I reach for the door latch. “And I doubt they’ve seen better.”

If you enjoyed this, follow me on Twitter @louise_kane_ or check out my site where I post more delicious smut just like this. 

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