Last Brew, Her Best Friend's Ass

I'd been secretly crushing on Kayla for years, ever since my best friend Jenna first dragged me over to their family's backyard barbecue when I was barely legal and Kayla was already this impossible twenty-something vision in a tank top that clung to every curve. Jenna's older step-sister. Forbidden enough in my head to make every glance feel dirty, but not actually blood, not actually off-limits except for the tangled mess of loyalty and the fact that she was moving across the country in the morning. Twenty-six years old, hips that swung like they knew exactly what they were doing, and an ass I had jerked off to more times than I could count. I was twenty-three, still half-convinced she'd never look twice at Jenna's awkward friend who showed up to help haul boxes.

The apartment was almost empty by three a.m. Cardboard towers lined the walls, tape guns abandoned on the counter, the last of her clothes stuffed into suitcases by the door. We'd been at it for hours—me carrying the heavy shit, her directing with that low laugh that always went straight to my cock. Lingering glances had been stacking up for months: her catching me staring when she bent to grab a beer at Jenna's place, the way her fingers would brush my arm a second too long, the flirty texts about nothing that somehow felt like everything. Tonight the tension sat thick between us, heavier than the humidity leaking through the cracked window.

“One last pot,” she said, voice rough from dust and late hours. Kayla filled the old drip machine while I collapsed onto the bare mattress she'd left for the final night. The smell of coffee cut through the cardboard and packing tape. She poured two mugs, black for both of us, and settled cross-legged opposite me. Yoga pants stretched tight over her thighs, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the full, round shape of her ass when she shifted. Her tank top had ridden up, flashing a strip of soft stomach and the edge of a black sports bra. I watched the way her lips parted around the rim of the mug, steam curling, and tried not to think about how those same lips would look stretched around something else.

“You’re quiet,” she said, eyes half-lidded over the coffee. “Usually you fill every silence with some dumb joke.”

“Just thinking about you leaving.” True enough. Mostly I was thinking about the way her nipples had pebbled earlier when the air conditioning kicked on, and how badly I wanted to put my mouth on them. Months of teasing—her “accidentally” grinding back against me during a group hug, the time she whispered that she bet I was packing more than the boxes I carried—had left me hard and aching more nights than not. I shifted on the mattress, hoping the dim light hid the outline in my jeans.

We drank slowly. Conversation drifted to old parties, Jenna’s terrible taste in men, the road trip Kayla had planned. Every few sentences her knee bumped mine. Every few more, her gaze dropped to my mouth. I could feel my pulse in my throat, in my dick. The coffee was bitter, the hour absurd, and still neither of us reached for the door.

When the mugs were empty she stood, stretching until her tank rode higher, then carried them to the tiny kitchen sink. I followed because I couldn’t not. The fluorescent light over the sink threw hard shadows across the curve of her lower back. Those yoga pants were criminal—dark gray, stretched smooth over the plump swell of her ass, the cleft just visible when she leaned forward to turn on the water. I stared. Openly. The globes of it, high and full, the way the fabric tucked between her cheeks when she shifted her weight. My hands itched. I wanted to palm them, spread them, bury my face between them until she moaned.

Kayla rinsed one mug, set it in the rack, then froze. She didn’t turn right away. Just let the water run while the silence stretched. Then she shut the faucet off and pivoted slowly, wicked smile already curling her mouth. Caught. Her eyes flicked down to the obvious bulge in my jeans and the smile widened, slow and filthy.

“You’ve been staring at my ass all night,” she said, voice low. No accusation. Invitation. “Months, actually. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” She stepped closer, close enough that the heat of her body reached me. “I’ve always wanted to feel your hands on me, you know that? Every time you looked I got wet thinking about what you’d do if you finally stopped being polite.”

The confession hit like a fist to the chest. I didn’t think. My hands went to her waist, thumbs sliding under the hem of her tank, feeling warm bare skin. She made a soft sound and surged up, mouth crashing into mine. Hungry. Open. Her tongue swept in, tasting coffee and want. I groaned into it, gripping harder, pulling her flush so my cock pressed against the soft give of her stomach. She rolled her hips deliberately, grinding that perfect ass back against nothing yet, teasing me with the motion.

Kissing turned frantic. I shoved her tank higher, palms skating up her ribs to cup her tits through the sports bra. Heavy, soft, nipples already tight under the fabric. She broke the kiss just long enough to yank the bra up, baring them—full, tipped with dark pink, bouncing slightly with her breath. I ducked and sucked one into my mouth, tongue laving, teeth grazing. Kayla’s head fell back, a broken moan spilling out. Her fingers tangled in my hair, holding me there while I switched sides, sucking hard enough to leave marks she’d feel on the plane tomorrow.

“Fuck, yes—” Her hand shoved between us, palming my cock through denim, squeezing the thick length. “Been wanting this. Wanting you.” She nipped my lower lip, then trailed wet kisses along my jaw to my ear. Her whisper was pure filth, hot breath making me throb. “My favorite way to get fucked is in the ass. Always has been. That deep stretch, the way it makes me drip and shake. I want you to give it to me. Proper goodbye. Think you can handle packing my last hole before I go?”