[Emily’s POV]

I close the door of my dorm room and lean against it, trying to remember if legs are supposed to feel like overcooked linguine or if that’s a new feature.

My thigh still burns where Maddie’s hand was. Like she tattooed her fingerprints using only denim friction and criminal intent. That slow circle she traced keeps replaying on my skin like a biological GIF that won’t stop loading.

I’m pacing the room like a caged animal. Every time I close my eyes, I feel her fingers pressing into my thigh, tracing maddening circles that made me want to crawl out of my skin and into hers.

This is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous.

It was just a stupid power play, another twist in the fucked-up tango we’ve been dancing since she waltzed back into my life with her perfect hair and her devastating smirk.

I flop onto my bed with a groan, burying my face in my pillow.

Get it together. So what if your former best friend slash current nemesis got you a little worked up under the table?

That doesn’t mean anything. You’re not into girls, remember?

You’re into nice, safe boys like Chris. Chris with his adorable smile and his boring anecdotes and his distinct lack of ability to set your nerve endings on fire with a single touch…

“Ugh, fuck my entire life.” I sit up, scrubbing my hands over my face.

Maddie’s stupid stuffed otter is judging me from its perch on her bed, its glassy eyes silently mocking my gay panic.

“Don’t look at me like that, you glorified beanie baby. I don’t see you having any brilliant insights into the shitstorm that is my sexuality.”

I grab my phone, desperate for a distraction from the persistent ache between my legs. But scrolling through Instagram only makes it worse—everyone else’s lives look so fucking normal.

All smiling selfies and aesthetic latte art while I’m over here questioning my entire identity. I lie back staring at the ceiling stain that looks like either a diseased kidney or Wyoming having an existential crisis.

Neither interpretation helps my current situation. Which is that I’m alone, Maddie’s still at dinner, and my underwear is soaked through like I’ve been sitting in a puddle of my own confusion.

Okay, that’s it. Clearly I just need to rub one out and get this out of my system.

One little orgasm and I’ll be right as rain, ready to face Maddie with the cool indifference.

My hand drifts before I unbutton my jeans, feeling how wet I already am through my underwear—apparently my body started this party without consulting management.

You got this, Emily. Just a quick little tug and you’ll be back on the straight and narrow. Pun absolutely fucking intended.

I push my underwear aside and the second my fingers brush over my clit, I know I’m in trouble. I circle it slowly, biting my lip to hold back a moan as pleasure sparks up my spine.

Fuck, that feels good. That feels really fucking good.

I let my mind drift to the restaurant, to the heat of Maddie’s hand on my thigh, the wicked promise in her eyes when she caught me squirming under her touch.

My fingers speed up, rubbing tight circles around my clit as I imagine her leaning in close, her breath hot against my ear as she whispers filthy things in it…

I’m so close, my inner walls starting that telltale flutter, when the door opens.

Maddie stands frozen like someone hit pause on reality. Her eyes catalog the scene—my hand buried in my jeans, face probably the color of a communist manifesto, chest heaving like I’ve been running from myself.

She steps inside and locks the door with the calm of someone dismantling a bomb or planning murder. “Did you leave dinner early just to do this?”

Words have abandoned me entirely. My mouth performs fish impressions while my brain displays a 404 error.

She crosses the room with predator precision. “Were you thinking about the restaurant?”

“Maddie, I… It’s not…” I’m stammering like an idiot, my brain short-circuiting as she stalks closer, her eyes never leaving mine. “I was just…”

“Oh, I think I know exactly what you were doing.”

She crosses the room with predator precision and sits down on the edge of my bed, close enough that I can smell her perfume, something dark and spicy that makes my head spin.

“Do you want to stop?”

My silence is all the answer she needs.

With a smirk, she trails one finger up my bare thigh, tracing the same maddening pattern she did under the table. I’m shaking now, my skin tight and oversensitive, my clit throbbing against my fingers like a second heartbeat.

“Oh, I think we both know I’m the one who’s going to be doing the fucking here.” Her hand slides higher. “Chris seems nice. Do you like him?”

“Jesus, Em, you’re so fucking wet.” She sounds almost awed, her eyes dark and hungry as she watches me writhe on her hand. “Were you this wet at the restaurant? When I was touching you under the table in front of everyone? I bet you were.”

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