Jessie opened her eyes to gray morning light filtering through the blinds, the kind of light that made the apartment feel underwater. She lay still for a moment, her skin cool against the sheets, the ceiling fan clicking its slow rotation overhead. The black dress hung on the outside of her closet door, a dark silhouette against the white wood, and she stared at it without moving.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She reached for it without looking away from the dress. The screen lit up with Steve's name, and the message was exactly what she expected: Remember. Nothing underneath.

Jessie set the phone down. Sat up. The sheet pooled in her lap, and she was naked, had slept naked, hadn't even bothered with a T-shirt when she'd crawled into bed last night after the shower she'd taken the moment she got home. She'd stood under the hot water until it ran cold, and then she'd lain in the dark, staring at the ceiling, tasting nothing but mint from the toothpaste she'd brushed with three times.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold against her bare feet, and she stood, and the fabric of the black dress brushed her thigh as she reached for her robe hanging on the back of the door. She slipped her arms into the worn cotton, tied the belt, and the softness of it felt like armor she hadn't earned yet.

From the hallway, she heard the coffee maker hiss and sputter. Stacey was awake.

Jessie opened her bedroom door and stepped into the narrow hallway, the carpet worn thin under her feet. The living room light was on, and the kitchen smelled like fresh brew and the faint lemon of the counter spray Stacey always used. She rounded the corner and saw Stacey standing at the counter in an oversized T-shirt and shorts, her brown bob mussed from sleep, pouring coffee into two mugs.

The pineapple magnet on the fridge caught the light—a ridiculous thing Stacey had bought at a souvenir shop, bright yellow with a googly eye glued on. Jessie had asked her why, and Stacey had said, Because it makes me smile when I'm hungover and looking for orange juice.

"Morning," Jessie said.

Stacey looked up. Her brown eyes were sharp despite the early hour, taking Jessie in—the robe, the bare legs, the hair still tangled from sleep. "You're up early. Thought you'd sleep till noon after yesterday."

There was no accusation in her voice. Just observation. But Jessie felt the weight of it anyway, the thing they hadn't talked about since she'd left Steve's office and come home to find Stacey already asleep in her own bed, the door closed, the light off.

"Couldn't sleep," Jessie said. "Mind if I—"

"Already poured you one." Stacey nudged the second mug across the counter. "Cream and one sugar, right?"

Jessie wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic. "You didn't have to."

"I know." Stacey took a sip of her own coffee, black, and leaned against the counter. "So. You want to tell me about yesterday, or do I have to guess?"

Jessie lifted the mug to her lips. The coffee was hot, bitter, and she let it burn her tongue before she swallowed. "Steve called me in for a meeting. He gave me a dress."

Stacey's eyes flicked to the closed bedroom door, where the black silk hung waiting. "That dress."

"Yes."

"And?"

Jessie set the mug down. Her hand was steady, which surprised her. "And I wore it. And I closed a deal with a man named Tyler Bouchard. And then I went back to Steve's office and thanked him."

The silence stretched. Stacey didn't blink. "Thanked him how?"

Jessie could have lied. Could have said a kiss and let Stacey fill in whatever version she needed. But she was tired of the taste of secrets in her mouth, tired of carrying them like stones in her chest. She had kissed Stacey, had watched her come, had fallen asleep in her arms. That meant something. Maybe it meant she owed her the truth, even if it burned.

"I touched him," Jessie said quietly. "And he touched me. And I—" She stopped. The words hung in her throat, and she swallowed them down and tried again. "I did what he asked. All of it."

Stacey's hand tightened on her mug. "Define 'all of it.'"

Jessie met her eyes. "He told me if I stopped, I was fired. And I didn't stop."

The coffee mug hit the counter harder than Stacey probably meant, a dull thunk that echoed in the small kitchen. She stared at Jessie, her jaw working, and Jessie watched the thoughts move behind her eyes—shock, anger, something that might have been fear.

"Jessie." Stacey's voice was low. "You gave him a handjob."

It wasn't a question. Jessie nodded anyway.

"In his office. At work."

"Yes."

Stacey set her mug down carefully, as if she was afraid she might throw it. She ran a hand through her hair, the short bob falling back into place, and let out a breath that sounded like it hurt coming out. "Okay. Okay, I need—I need a second."

She turned away, bracing her hands on the edge of the sink, her back to Jessie. The morning light caught the curve of her shoulder, the tan skin, the faint freckles Jessie had never noticed before. She stood there for a long moment, breathing, and Jessie waited.

"Why?" Stacey said finally. Her voice was rough. "Why did you do it?"

Jessie thought about the answer. Thought about power, and the way it had felt to see Tyler sign without reading, the way Steve's approval had warmed her more than the wine. Thought about the taste in her mouth that she still couldn't decide if she liked, and the bruise in her chest that had stopped hurting.

"Because I wanted to," she said. "And because he was right."

Stacey turned. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying. "Right about what?"

"That I'm not the girl from Bainbridge anymore. That I can be someone else here. Someone who has power." Jessie wrapped her arms around herself, the robe soft against her palms. "I know it sounds like I'm making excuses. Maybe I am. But when I kissed Tyler and he signed, I felt—" She searched for the word. "—real. Like I was finally taking up space in the world."

"And Steve?" Stacey's voice cracked on his name. "Is he part of this new you too?"

Jessie looked down at her coffee, the surface still rippling from where she'd set it down. "I don't know. Maybe. But he's not the whole thing. He's just—teaching me."

"Teaching you how to trade your body for contracts."

"Teaching me how to use what I have." Jessie looked up. "You said it yourself. That night at the party. You said I was selling myself. But what if I'm not selling it? What if I'm investing it in something that matters?"

Stacey shook her head slowly. "That's the same thing, Jessie. You just found a prettier word for it."

"Maybe." Jessie picked up her mug and took a long drink, the heat spreading through her chest. "But it's my choice. And I made it."

The silence between them was different now—not the charged silence of accusation, but something heavier. Something that had to be carried together or dropped.

"Today," Stacey said. "Victor's yacht."

"Yes."

"You're wearing that dress."

"Yes."

"With nothing underneath."

Jessie nodded.

Stacey closed her eyes. When she opened them, the wetness was gone, replaced by something harder. "And you're going to let him touch you."

"Yes," Jessie said again. "That's the plan."

Stacey picked up her own mug and drank, the coffee dark against her lips. She set it down and met Jessie's gaze, and there was something in her eyes that Jessie hadn't seen before—not anger, not fear. Resignation. The look of someone watching a train come off the tracks and knowing they can't stop it.

"Then I'm coming with you."

Jessie blinked. "What?"

"Not on the yacht. But I'm driving you to the marina. I'm waiting in the parking lot. And when you're done, you text me the pineapple code, and I pick you up, and we go home and drink cheap wine and you tell me everything." Stacey's chin lifted. "That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

Jessie stared at her. The offer was unexpected—not a blessing, not a condemnation, but a presence. A witness. Someone who would be there when it was over, no matter what happened on the water.

"Okay," Jessie said. "Okay. I'll take it."

Stacey nodded once, sharp, and turned back to her coffee. "Good. Now go shower. You smell like his office."

Jessie almost laughed. She didn't—the sound stuck in her throat—but she felt it, the flicker of something light in the heavy morning air. She carried her mug to the sink, rinsed it, and left it on the drying rack.

In the bathroom, she stripped off the robe and stood in front of the mirror. Her body looked the same as it always had—tall, slender, the small curve of her breasts, the wide hips, the pale skin that had never seen a tanning bed. But something in her eyes had changed. A steadiness that hadn't been there a week ago. A stillness she didn't recognize.

She turned on the water and stepped into the steam.

The heat hit her back, her shoulders, and she let it wash over her, let it rinse away the last traces of Steve's office, of his hands, of the taste she'd carried home. She washed her hair twice, conditioned it, shaved her legs with slow, deliberate strokes. Every movement was a preparation. Every minute was a step closer to the dress.

She stayed under the spray until the water began to cool, then turned off the shower and stood in the dripping silence, beads of water tracing paths down her skin. The towel was rough against her arms, her thighs, the damp curve of her neck, and she dried herself with the same slow deliberation she'd used to wash—every inch accounted for, every part of her ready.

Back in her bedroom, the black dress waited.

She dropped the towel and stood naked in front of the closet, the silk catching the gray light like oil on water. Her hand reached out and touched the fabric. It was cool, impossibly smooth, and it slid against her fingers like it wanted to be worn.

She lifted it off the hanger.

The dress went on like a second skin—over her head, down her shoulders, settling against her ribs, her waist, her hips. The silk clung to every curve, and there was nothing between it and her but air. She could feel the fabric against her nipples, the soft press of it at the junction of her thighs, and the sensation was electric, intimate, a constant reminder of what she wasn't wearing.

She turned to the mirror on the back of her closet door.

The woman looking back at her was beautiful. Not the girl from Bainbridge in her pastel cardigans and sensible skirts—this was someone else. Someone whose body was a weapon she was still learning to aim. The black silk fell to mid-thigh, the neckline plunging in a V that showed the upper curve of her breasts, the shadow between them. Her blonde hair hung damp and straight over her shoulders, and her blue eyes were wide but steady, meeting her own gaze without flinching.

She didn't look like a virgin.

She didn't look like someone who'd never been kissed.

She looked like a woman walking into a room she'd chosen to enter.

Jessie reached for the door handle, and her hand was steady. She opened the door and stepped into the hallway, the silk whispering against her thighs with every step, and found Stacey waiting by the front door with her keys in her hand.

Stacey's breath caught. Just barely—a hitch Jessie might have missed if she hadn't been watching for it. Her brown eyes traveled the length of the dress, the bare legs, the damp hair, the stillness in Jessie's shoulders.

"Jesus," Stacey said softly. "He's not going to know what hit him."

Jessie almost smiled. "That's the idea."

Stacey grabbed her purse and opened the front door. The Las Vegas morning hit them—dry heat, the distant hum of traffic, the smell of asphalt baking under a sun that was already high and white. Jessie followed her out into the light, the dress warm against her skin, and she didn't look back.

Stacey's car was a small Honda, the interior cluttered with empty water bottles and a scarf draped over the passenger seat. Jessie slid in, the black silk whispering against the fabric, and pulled the door closed. The heat inside was already building, the sun slanting through the windshield, and she reached for the seatbelt with fingers that were steadier than she'd expected.

Stacey started the engine without a word. The radio came on, low country music that filled the space between them like a third passenger. She pulled away from the curb, her hands at ten and two, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

The drive to the marina took twenty minutes through the sprawl of the city's edge—strip malls giving way to empty lots, then to the wide blue of Lake Mead appearing between hills of scrub and rock. Jessie watched it grow through the windshield, the water flat and glittering under the high sun, and she felt the weight of the dress against her skin like a second pulse.

Stacey didn't speak until they turned into the marina parking lot. The asphalt was cracked, weeds pushing through, and the boats bobbed in their slips like a row of white teeth. She pulled into a space near the entrance and cut the engine. The silence that followed was louder than the radio had been.

"Jessie."

Jessie turned. Stacey's face was hard to read in the glare—her brown eyes catching the light, her lips pressed together in a thin line.

"You don't have to do this," Stacey said. Her voice was low, almost a whisper. "You can say you're sick. You can walk away. I'll drive us home right now, and we'll order pizza and never talk about it again."

Jessie looked at her. The offer was real, she could see it in the tightness of Stacey's shoulders, the way her hands still gripped the wheel even though the engine was off. An escape hatch. A way back to the girl from Bainbridge who had never kissed anyone, who had never touched her best friend, who had never knelt for her boss with his cum on her tongue.

"I can't," Jessie said. "You know I can't."

Stacey's jaw tightened. She stared at Jessie for a long moment, and then she moved.

She leaned across the center console, her hand coming up to cup Jessie's cheek, and she kissed her.

It wasn't like the kiss in the cab. That had been sudden, electric, a question asked without words. This was slower, deliberate—Stacey's lips soft and warm, her thumb brushing the line of Jessie's jaw. Jessie's breath caught, and she didn't pull away. She let the kiss happen, let it fill the small space of the car like smoke.

Stacey pulled back. Her eyes were wet again, but she was smiling. A small, sad smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Come back," she said. "That's all I'm asking. Whatever happens on that boat, come back to me."

Jessie's throat tightened. She nodded, not trusting her voice.

Stacey leaned in and kissed her one more time, quick, on the corner of her mouth. Then she sat back and reached across Jessie to pop the door open. "Go. Before I change my mind and drag you home."

Jessie got out of the car. The heat hit her like a wall, the dry air sucking the cool from her skin. She stood for a moment, the door hanging open, and looked back at Stacey through the window. Stacey raised her hand in a wave, and Jessie raised hers back.

She closed the door and walked toward the marina.

The dock creaked under her heels. The black silk of her dress shimmered in the sun, and she could feel eyes on her—the other boat owners, the deckhands, the men cleaning their lines. She didn't look at them. She kept her gaze fixed on the forty-eight-foot Beneteau at the end of the pier, its white hull spotless, its deck gleaming.

Victor was waiting at the stern. He was wearing a white linen shirt, open at the collar, and sunglasses that hid his eyes. He smiled when he saw her, a slow, appreciative curve of his lips that made her stomach flip.

"Jessie," he said. "You look beautiful."

She stepped onto the deck, and the boat swayed gently under her weight. "Thank you for having me."

He took her hand, his palm warm and dry, and helped her aboard. His fingers lingered on hers a moment longer than necessary, and she felt the heat of his touch travel up her arm.

"I have wine," he said. "And champagne. And a very good gin and tonic, if you prefer."

"Wine would be perfect."

He led her to the seating area at the stern, a curved white couch with plush cushions, and poured her a glass of something pale and cold. She took it, the glass cool against her fingertips, and sat down. The sun was warm on her shoulders, the silk of her dress already sticking to the back of her thighs.

Victor settled across from her, his own drink in hand, and regarded her over the rim of his glass. "I'm glad you came."

"I said I would."

"So you did." He smiled. "I've been thinking about our last meeting. About the boat."

Jessie took a sip of wine. It was crisp, dry, and she let it sit on her tongue before swallowing. "So have I."

"Good." He set his glass down and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "I want to be direct with you, Jessie. I like you. I like your intelligence, your ambition, the way you carry yourself. But I'm not a man who does business without understanding exactly what I'm getting into."

She met his gaze. "I understand."

"Do you?" His voice was soft, but there was an edge to it. "The trial contract I signed—that was a gesture of goodwill. A test. I wanted to see if you were serious, or if you were just another pretty face sent to charm me into a signature."

Jessie set her wine down beside her. The boat rocked gently, and she placed her hands flat on the cushion to steady herself. "And what did you decide?"

Victor studied her for a long moment. Then he stood, walked to the cabin, and returned with a folder. He held it out to her.

"The full partnership agreement," he said. "Three-year term. Renewal options. Exclusivity. I had my lawyers draft it last week."

Jessie took the folder. It was heavy in her hands, the weight of a deal that could change everything. She opened it, scanned the first page—legal language she barely understood, clauses and subclauses, the logo of St. Mary's West at the top.

"It's all there," Victor said. "Everything we discussed. Everything you asked for."

She looked up. "What's the catch?"

Victor smiled. It was a different smile now—slower, hungrier. "The catch is that I want to be sure you understand what you're offering in return."

Jessie closed the folder. Her heart was beating faster, but her hands were steady. "I'm listening."

He walked around the seating area and sat down beside her. Close enough that she could smell his cologne—something woody and expensive—and feel the heat of his body through the air between them.

"I'm ready to sign this agreement today," he said. "Right now, on this boat. But I need you to prove to me that you're serious. That you're not just playing at this."

She turned to face him. Her knee brushed his, and she didn't pull away. "What do you need me to do?"

Victor's hand came up, slow, and his fingers touched the curve of her jaw. She held still, let him trace the line of her throat down to her collarbone, where the black silk began. His thumb rested in the hollow of her neck, feeling her pulse.

"Make me come," he said. "Right here. With your hand. And I'll sign."

Jessie's breath caught. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and electric. She thought of Steve's hands on hers, of the way he had guided her fingers, the pressure, the rhythm. She thought of the taste in her mouth that she still remembered too clearly.

"Okay," she said.

Victor's eyes widened, just a fraction. He hadn't expected her to agree so quickly. But then he smiled, and the hunger in it made her stomach tighten.

"Good." He leaned back on the couch, unbuttoning his linen pants with the casual ease of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. His cock sprang free, already half-hard, and Jessie looked at it for a moment—the thickness of it, the dark veins, the way it twitched under her gaze.

She remembered Steve's hands around hers. The rhythm. The pressure. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around Victor's shaft.

He was warm. Hotter than Steve had been. His skin was smooth, and she felt him stiffen further under her touch. She moved her hand slowly, the way Steve had taught her—up, then down, the pad of her thumb tracing the ridge at the tip. Victor's breath hissed through his teeth, and his hand came up to cover hers, guiding her grip tighter.

"That's it," he said. "Just like that."

She worked him in steady strokes, her eyes fixed on his face. His sunglasses had slipped, and she could see his dark eyes, half-lidded, watching her through the glare. His chest rose and fell faster, his hand still on hers, not stopping her but teaching her the rhythm he wanted.

She thought of Stacey's kiss in the car. The sadness in her eyes. She thought of Steve's voice: If you stop, you're fired. She thought of the girl from Bainbridge, who had never done this, who had never even imagined it.

She kept moving her hand.

Victor's breathing grew ragged. His hips bucked into her grip, and she adjusted the angle, pressed harder, found the spot that made him groan. His hand tightened on hers, and she knew he was close.

"Don't stop," he said. "Don't stop."

She didn't stop. She worked him through it, felt his cock throb and pulse, and then he was coming—hot streaks across her fingers, her knuckles, the splash of it hitting her chin, her lips. She closed her eyes, felt the warmth of it on her skin, the smell of salt and something else, something that made her stomach flip in a way she didn't want to name.

When he was done, he slumped back, breathing hard. His hand fell away from hers. The cum was cooling on her face, sticky, and she opened her eyes.

Victor looked at her. His eyes were dark, his lips parted, and there was something in his expression she hadn't seen before—a crack in the smooth facade. Surprise. Wonder.

"Now kiss it," he said.

Jessie didn't move. The words sat in the air, and she felt the weight of them, the test hidden inside. He wanted to see how far she would go. How much she would give.

She leaned forward.

His cock was still wet, softening. She opened her mouth—a deliberate, slow movement—and enveloped the tip. The taste hit her tongue: salt, bitterness, the faint musk of him. She closed her lips around him and sucked. Once. Strong. A single pull that drew a gasp from his throat, his hips jerking under her.

She pulled back. The taste lingered, and she swallowed without thinking. Her lips were wet, marked with him.

Victor stared at her. His chest was still heaving, and his hand trembled as he reached out and touched her cheek, smearing the cum that still clung to her skin.

"You—" He stopped. Shook his head. A laugh escaped him, rough and disbelieving. "You won."

Jessie didn't smile. She sat back, her hand still damp, the folder heavy on the cushion beside her. She had won. She had done what Steve taught her, what Victor asked, and she had won.

But she could still taste him on her tongue, and she didn't know if the victory was hers or theirs.

Victor reached for the folder, his hand still unsteady, and pulled out a pen. He flipped to the last page and signed his name with a flourish that belied the tremor in his fingers. He held the paper out to her.

"Your turn."

Jessie took the pen. The plastic was warm from his hand. She signed her name at the bottom—Jessie Miller—and the ink was dark against the white paper.

The deal was done.

She set the pen down and looked at the lake, the water glittering under the sun. Somewhere behind her, Stacey was waiting in the parking lot, her hand still smelling of Jessie's kiss. And somewhere in the city, Steve was waiting for news, waiting to hear that his pupil had succeeded.

She had won.

She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and tasted salt and copper and something that might have been the beginning of a new girl, a girl who was still learning what she was willing to become.

The boat rocked gently beneath her as she stood, the folder pressed against her ribs, the signature still wet on the last page. Victor was watching her from the couch, his linen pants still undone, his cock softening against his thigh. He made no move to cover himself, and she didn't look away.

"I'll have my assistant send you a copy," he said. His voice was rougher than before, the composure frayed at the edges. "And, Jessie—"

She waited.

"You'll hear from me soon. I keep my promises."

She nodded once, then turned and walked to the stern where the gangplank met the dock. Her heels clicked against the fiberglass, and she could feel his eyes on her back, tracing the line of the black silk down her spine. She didn't hurry. She didn't slow down. She stepped off the boat onto the wooden dock, and the boat swayed behind her like a living thing releasing her from its hold.

The walk back to the parking lot was longer than she remembered. The sun was higher now, hotter, and the silk clung to her skin in places that made her aware of every inch of uncovered flesh. The other boat owners had gone back to their business, but a few heads turned as she passed, and she didn't meet their eyes.

She reached the edge of the parking lot, the cracked asphalt hot through the thin soles of her heels, and saw Stacey's Honda still in the same spot. The engine was running—she could see the faint shimmer of exhaust in the heat—and Stacey was sitting behind the wheel, her hands gripping it at ten and two, her face unreadable through the glare on the windshield.

Jessie walked to the passenger door and pulled it open. The heat inside hit her like a furnace, and she slid into the seat, the leather hot against the backs of her thighs, and pulled the door closed with a solid thunk.

Stacey didn't move. She just looked at Jessie—the damp blonde hair, the black dress still pristine, the folder in her lap. Her brown eyes traveled down to Jessie's chin, where a smear of something pale and drying caught the light.

"You have something on your face."

Jessie reached up and wiped her chin with the back of her hand. The smear came away sticky, and she didn't need to look at it to know what it was. "I got the contract."

Stacey's hands tightened on the wheel. The leather creaked under her grip. "What did it cost?"

Jessie looked at her. The question hung in the air between them, heavy and sharp as broken glass. She thought about Steve's office, the taste on her tongue, the way Victor's hand had trembled when he signed. She thought about the girl from Bainbridge, who would have cried at the idea of any of this.

"Nothing I haven't paid before."

Stacey's breath caught. It was a small sound, barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner, but Jessie heard it. She watched Stacey's jaw tighten, watched her swallow, watched the pulse jump in her throat.

And then Stacey moved.

She lunged across the center console, her hand fisting in the damp blonde hair at the nape of Jessie's neck, and she kissed her. It wasn't like the kiss in the cab, electric and questioning. It wasn't like the kiss in the parking lot, soft and sad. This was hungry, desperate, a collision of teeth and tongue and the taste of coffee on Stacey's breath.

Jessie made a sound—a muffled gasp against Stacey's mouth—and then she was kissing back, her hands coming up to cup Stacey's face, her fingers tangling in the short brown bob. The folder slipped from her lap and hit the floor mat with a soft thump, but she didn't care. She didn't care about anything except the heat of Stacey's mouth, the way Stacey's teeth scraped her lower lip, the way her hand tightened in Jessie's hair like she was afraid she might pull away.

Stacey broke the kiss just long enough to gasp, "I hate that he touched you," and then she was kissing her again, harder, her other hand sliding down Jessie's side, over the curve of her hip, the silk hot and slick under her palm.

Jessie's head hit the headrest, and Stacey followed her, leaning over the console, her body half out of the driver's seat, her mouth never leaving Jessie's. The car was small, too small for this, and Jessie's knees pressed against the dashboard, but she didn't care. She pulled Stacey closer, her hands running down Stacey's back, feeling the thin cotton of her T-shirt, the heat of her skin beneath it.

Stacey's mouth left hers and traveled down her jaw, her throat. Her tongue traced the line of Jessie's pulse, and Jessie's head fell back, a moan escaping her lips before she could stop it. Stacey's teeth grazed her collarbone, and she felt the sting of it, the pressure of a mouth that wanted to mark.

"Stacey—"

"Shut up." Stacey's voice was ragged against her skin. "Just—shut up and let me—"

She didn't finish the sentence. Instead, she pulled back, her eyes wild, her lips swollen and wet, and looked at Jessie. Her brown eyes were dark, pupils blown, and there was a flush spreading across her tan cheeks that hadn't been there a minute ago.

"The back seat," Stacey said. "Now."

Jessie didn't think. She scrambled over the console, her knees digging into the fabric, the black dress riding up her thighs. Stacey was already climbing into the back, pulling Jessie with her, and they landed in a tangle of limbs on the worn upholstery. The windows fogged instantly, the humidity of their breathing trapped in the small space.

Stacey was on top of her, her thighs straddling Jessie's hips, her hands braced on either side of Jessie's head. The T-shirt had ridden up, exposing a strip of tan skin above the waistband of her shorts, and Jessie reached up and touched it, the warmth of her stomach, the soft give of flesh.

"You're so beautiful," Jessie said. The words came out before she could stop them, and she felt stupid for saying them, for being so earnest, for wanting so badly.

Stacey's eyes softened. Just for a second. Then she leaned down and kissed her again, slower this time, her tongue sliding against Jessie's in a rhythm that made her hips buck instinctively.

Jessie felt it—the heat between them, the friction of denim against silk, the pressure of Stacey's weight on her hips. She wanted more. She wanted to feel Stacey's skin against hers, wanted to taste her, wanted to make her gasp the way she had that night in the bedroom when they'd touched themselves side by side.

She reached down and gripped Stacey's hips, pulling her closer, grinding up against her. The sensation was electric—the rough denim of Stacey's shorts against the thin silk, the pressure right where she needed it. Her breath caught, and she did it again, a slow roll of her hips that made Stacey's eyes flutter closed.

"Fuck," Stacey breathed. "Jessie—"

Jessie did it again. Harder. A rhythm found her hips, a pulse that matched the throb between her legs. The silk was soaked through, she could feel it, the wetness of her own arousal seeping into the fabric, and she wondered if Stacey could feel it too, if the heat of her was bleeding through the denim.

Stacey's head dropped forward, her forehead pressing against Jessie's. Her breath was hot and uneven, fanning across Jessie's lips, and she was rocking now too, her hips moving in counterpoint to Jessie's, the friction building between them like a live wire.

"Can you feel it?" Jessie whispered. "Can you feel how wet I am?"

Stacey's answer was a moan, low and broken, and she kissed Jessie again, open-mouthed and sloppy, her tongue sliding against Jessie's as she ground down harder. The rhythm found a new pitch, faster, more desperate, and the heat in the car was suffocating, the windows completely fogged, the world outside vanished.

Jessie's hands slid down Stacey's back, over the curve of her ass, pulling her tighter. She could feel the dampness through Stacey's shorts too, a warm patch at the seam, and she pressed her fingers against it, felt Stacey's hips stutter in response.

"Is that for me?" Jessie asked. Her voice was barely a whisper, rough and raw. "Or is it because you know what I did on that boat?"

Stacey's eyes flew open. They were dark, glazed, and for a second Jessie thought she'd gone too far. But then Stacey's lips curved into a smile that was all teeth, and she leaned down and bit Jessie's lower lip, hard enough to hurt.

"Both," she said. "And I don't care which one's stronger."

She rolled her hips again, and the pressure built, and Jessie's eyes rolled back in her head. The grinding was everything—the friction, the heat, the wet sound of their bodies moving together. She could feel her own climax building, a tightening low in her belly, and she didn't know if she was going to come or if she was just going to stay on this edge forever, suspended in the heat and the smell of Stacey's shampoo and the taste of her own desperation.

"Almost," Jessie gasped. "I'm almost—"

Stacey's hand found hers, fingers lacing together, and she pressed their joined hands against the seat above Jessie's head. "Come for me," she said. "Let me feel it."

The words broke something. Jessie's hips bucked, and she came in a wave that rolled through her, her thighs trembling, her cunt clenching around nothing, the silk soaked and twisted between them. She heard herself make a sound—high and broken—and she didn't recognize it, didn't care.

Stacey stayed on top of her, breathing hard, her forehead pressed against Jessie's, their fingers still intertwined. The heat of the car was oppressive, the smell of sex thick in the air, and neither of them moved for a long moment.

Then Stacey pulled back. Her eyes were wet, but she was smiling—a real smile this time, not the sad one from the parking lot. She reached down and brushed a strand of blonde hair from Jessie's face, her thumb tracing the line of Jessie's cheekbone.

"You taste like him," Stacey said quietly. "I can taste it on your lips."

Jessie's stomach flipped. She had wondered, in the back of her mind, if Stacey would notice. If the salt and bitterness of Victor's cum was still there, ghosting her tongue, transferring to Stacey's mouth when they kissed. And Stacey had kissed her anyway. Had wanted her anyway.

"Does it bother you?" Jessie asked.

Stacey was quiet for a second. Then she shook her head slowly. "It should. But it doesn't. It makes me want to kiss you harder, so I can taste what you've become."

Jessie's throat tightened. She reached up and pulled Stacey down into another kiss, softer this time, a gentle press of lips that said more than words could. When they broke apart, Stacey's smile had softened, and she looked almost shy.

"We should go home," Stacey said. "I said I'd make you dinner, remember?"

Jessie nodded. Her body was still humming, the aftershocks of her climax fading to a warm buzz. She sat up slowly, the black dress twisted around her thighs, and she smoothed it down with hands that were not quite steady.

Stacey climbed back into the driver's seat, adjusting her shorts, running a hand through her mussed bob. She caught Jessie's eye in the rearview mirror and grinned—a real grin, bright and wicked—and started the engine. The air conditioner kicked on, blasting cold air into the fogged cabin, and Jessie watched the condensation clear from the windows, the world outside coming back into focus.

She reached down and picked up the folder from the floor mat. The partnership agreement. Signed. The signature was still bold and dark on the last page, and she traced it with her fingertip, feeling the indentation of Victor's pen.

"You really did it," Stacey said. "You got the deal."

"I did."

The car pulled out of the parking lot, leaving the marina behind, the blue water shrinking in the side mirror. Jessie leaned her head against the window, the glass cool against her temple, and watched the desert scroll past. The sun was high and white, and the road shimmered with heat, and she was going home to dinner with the girl who had kissed the taste of another man from her lips and wanted her anyway.