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mood |
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 uncomfortable |
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music |
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Do You Wanna Touch Me? - Joan Jett |
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The sound of the trailer's door opening would not usually caused quite so much surprise. Nor would the sight of Mallory being the one who entered.
Now, though, her Russian friend gave a short squeak of alarm, all wide eyes and innocence. The last week or so had been mightily puzzling, to say the least. This was the first time they had met.
"Mallorys...?" The girl asked, uncertainty clear in her voice. No Irish now. The accent was definitely Russian. "What was be happenings?"
Mallory paused mid-step, looked over her shoulder as if she thought she were being followed, then stepped inside somewhat gingerly and closed the door behind her.
"Um..." She began, then stopped because she didn't know how to finish the sentence. Mallory knew what she remembered, but had been hanging onto the hope that it had been a dream. One of those dreams when she ate too much spicy food before bed. But the look on Sonya's face cured her of that foolishness.
( Homefront Awkwardness )
( Let Me Call You Sweetheart - Mild Sexuality )
"I'm sorry," said Mallory, although she was unsure if she was, at that point. "I shouldn't have let it go that far."
She opened her eyes and looked at the now-silent phone, licking her bottom lip again. Victoria needed her for something. She did not know what, but something. That meant she had to go and look into it.
She should probably shower first, though. Victoria had already smelled Sonya on her once and they had not even been doing anything, back then. Now they... Had. So, a shower was definitely in order. She was flushed, her stomach a tight little ball of desire.
A very cold shower.
"Be here when I get back, OK? Please?" A request, but one the older redhead made without looking at the younger one. Because if she looked at her, that would make it twice as difficult to get off the couch and tend to her girlfriend. "So that we can talk about this."
She pulled herself into a standing position, feeling unfaithful. Did it count as infidelity if you had not even admitted to yourself of such feelings being harboured? Maybe she should write into an advice columnist about it. Why did her life insist on pretending to be an episode of Jerry Springer?
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