Coming Together Under Fire

An eBook By Alessia Brio and Will Belegon.

Fire and Ice by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Her hair is in pigtails, short ones that look beyond adorable. On an older girl, this wouldn't work, but at twenty-two, they strike just the right balance between cuteness and flirtation. She looks just young enough that I get a slight chill, wondering if the six years between us signal my-or her-utter corruption. But she is an adult, and she sits surveying the party crowd, cigarette in hand. She's the co-host of the party but looks like she doesn't really care if people are having a good time, is waiting for it to be over so she can crawl into bed with her smoke and her stare.

While she's waiting, I check her out surreptitiously. I know she's mature enough to do justice to my fantasies, the ones she clearly wants to provoke with her short black denim skirt, patterned fishnets, and skimpy v-neck white T-shirt with black bra peeking out. Perfectly trashy. Her intense stare darts from the mess of disheveled hair she constantly pushes from her face, the better to hide from the world, though really she is the type of girl who desperately wants to be seen. You don't dress like that to be ignored.

We've met before, but you'd hardly know it, could call us strangers and totally get away with it. I know enough details to intrigue me, to find her the most fascinating girl in the room, a bundle of contradictions I'm dying to unravel. Otherwise, this party doesn't have much going for it. What had seemed like a fun night out has devolved into a crowd full of strangers, tired drinks, and canned music. Fun-by-numbers, but it's still better than watching the same old videos at home for the umpteenth time. And her; she makes it worth every idle minute of sipping my drink and trying to look lost in thought or at least casually busy. I stick around, knowing she's exactly the kind of girl who likes to be kept waiting, even if she doesn't know it yet.

Her skirt falls to mid-thigh and immediately makes me want to get under it, hiding and showing just enough of her leg, tempting and teasing me with the promise of what lies beneath. She's looking around with that calm, icy assurance that belies her years, but it's not that typical New York swagger, that Do-I-have-somewhereelse-to-be? /Is-there-anyone-important-here-for-me-to-talkto? look.

wonder where she culled her party guests, or maybe they're all her roommate's because nobody's paying her any attention, abiding the invisible "Steer Clear" on her forehead. I can sense the hesitancy as she takes each drag, fingers shaking infinitesimally, not wanting to admit to anything but her bravado. As I watch her, that is what I long to crack. In my head, I press my hand against her eager cunt, as I make her buckle underneath me, claw at the wall; drop her cigarette and her façade as she succumbs to what she truly wants.

Looking at her all cool and calm, a vision comes to me-her, naked, on her hands and knees on a bed, her clit sparkling with the silver hoop surely dangling from its hood, her wetness...

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