The Run

Carrie's a fiery redhead who talks a big game about rules but never sticks to them. She talked her best friend Stacey into an early run, then crawled right back into bed like she owed morning nothing. Ten minutes later Stacey's banging on the door—fit in that tight tank, sports bra doing nothing to hide how perky she is, ponytail swinging, cheeks already pink from the jog over. She lets herself in and catches Carrie tangled in sheets, hair wild, tits bare, one leg thrown out like she's daring the world to look. Stacey's grin turns wicked fast; she climbs onto the mattress, straddles Carrie's hips, and plants a hand over that smart mouth. Carrie smirks, eyes dropping straight to the damp seam pressing hot against her thigh. The run can wait. Right now Stacey's grinding slow, shorts shoved aside just enough, slick heat dragging over Carrie's skin in hungry little circles. She grabs Carrie's wrists, pins them above her head, and bites that grin right off Carrie's face with a sloppy kiss that tastes like sweat and trouble.