Did She Teach You This?

Okay, so here’s the thing. I’m not supposed to be here, not really, but when Jenna invited me to crash her bachelorette party, I couldn’t say no. I mean, it’s Jenna. She’s been my rock since college, the kind of friend who knows every ugly secret and still sticks around. But now I’m in this stuffy library room at the back of some fancy estate, surrounded by her giggling, half-drunk friends, and I’m wondering why the hell I thought this was a good idea. I’m not the party type. I’m the “stay home with a book and a glass of cheap wine” type. And yet, here I am, sipping shitty champagne from a plastic flute, feeling like a kid playing dress-up in my too-tight skirt.

Then there’s her. Mara. Jenna’s older cousin or mentor or something—hell, I don’t even know how they’re connected exactly, just that she’s been hovering around all night with this quiet, knowing smirk. She’s gotta be pushing forty, maybe more, with these sharp cheekbones and a body that doesn’t quit. I keep catching myself staring at her chest, which is honestly ridiculous—those curves are practically spilling out of her blouse, and I’m not even into women. Or at least, I didn’t think I was. But there’s something about the way she moves, slow and deliberate, like she’s got all the time in the world to unravel you. And yeah, I’m unraveling. Fast.

I’m standing by a bookshelf, pretending to read the spine of some dusty old novel, when she sidles up. No warning, just the faint whiff of her perfume—something smoky and expensive—hitting me before her voice does. “You’re not having fun, are you?” she says, low and teasing, like she’s already decided the answer.

I turn, and she’s closer than I expect, her hip brushing the edge of the shelf. My mouth goes dry. “I’m fine,” I mumble, which is a lie, and she knows it. Her eyes—dark, almost black—flick over me, taking in every nervous twitch. I feel like a bug under a magnifying glass, and I hate how much I like it.

“You’re not,” she says, stepping even closer. The room’s loud, all the other women shrieking over some stupid party game on the other side, but her voice cuts through it like a knife. “You’re bored. And you’re curious.” She tilts her head, and I swear I feel the air between us get heavier. “Aren’t you?”

I don’t know what to say to that. Curious about what? About her? About why my skin’s buzzing just from her standing there? I open my mouth to brush her off, but then her hand’s on my arm, light but firm, and she’s steering me toward a corner of the room, behind a row of tall shelves. It’s darker here, the chatter of the party muffled, and I can hear my own heartbeat hammering in my ears.

“What are we—” I start, but she cuts me off with a finger to my lips. Her touch is warm, a little rough from what I’m guessing are years of living hard, and I freeze. She’s so close now I can see the faint lines around her eyes, the way her lips curve like she’s always half-laughing at something.

“Shh,” she murmurs. “Don’t overthink it, kid.” Kid. That stings, but it also does something else, something I can’t name, something that makes my stomach twist in a way that’s not entirely bad. Her hand slides down from my mouth to my jaw, tilting my face up. “You’ve been watching me all night. Don’t pretend you haven’t.”

I want to argue, to tell her she’s wrong, but I can’t. Because she’s not. I’ve been stealing glances, wondering what it’d be like to be the kind of person who could just… do this. Whatever this is. Her thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, and I suck in a breath, sharp and loud in the quiet space between us.

“There it is,” she says, almost to herself, like she’s confirming something. Then she’s leaning in, and I don’t pull away. I don’t even think to. Her lips are on mine, soft at first, testing, but when I don’t shove her off—when I lean into it, clumsy and eager—she deepens it. Her tongue slips past my lips, hot and insistent, and I taste the champagne on her, mixed with something darker, maybe tobacco. My hands are shaking, but I grab at her waist anyway, pulling her closer, and she lets out this low hum that vibrates through me.

We’re hidden by the shelves, but I can still hear the party, the laughter, the clink of glasses. Anyone could walk back here and see us, and that thought should scare me, but it doesn’t. It makes my skin prickle with heat. Mara’s hands are on me now, one sliding up my side, the other gripping my hip hard enough to leave marks. She pulls back just enough to look at me, her breath ragged, her eyes glinting with something dangerous.

“You’re greener than I thought,” she says, and there’s a laugh in her voice, but it’s not mean. It’s warm, almost fond, like she’s enjoying how out of my depth I am. “Didn’t think you’d let me get this far.”

I flush, embarrassed, but I don’t want her to stop. “I’m not—I mean, I’ve never—” I stammer, and she just grins, predatory but not cruel.

“Relax,” she says, her hand slipping under the hem of my skirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of my thigh. I jolt at the contact, and she steadies me with her other hand, pressing me back against the shelf. The wood digs into my spine, but I barely notice. “I’ll show you. Just follow my lead.”

Her fingers are higher now, teasing at the edge of my underwear, and I’m already so wet it’s mortifying. She notices—of course she does—and her grin widens. “Damn, sweetheart,” she mutters, her voice dropping even lower. “All this just from a kiss? You’re gonna be fun.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t. I just let her push the fabric aside, her fingers slick and sure as they find me. My head tips back against the shelf, and I bite down on a gasp. It’s too much, too fast, but I don’t want her to stop. She’s watching my face the whole time, reading every twitch, every shudder, like she’s mapping out exactly what I need. And god, she’s good at it. Her touch is precise, circling and pressing in ways that make my knees buckle.

“Keep quiet,” she whispers, her mouth at my ear now, her breath hot against my skin. “Unless you want them all to hear how much you’re enjoying this.” There’s a challenge in her tone, and I clench my jaw, trying to muffle the sounds I can’t help but make. Her free hand moves up, cupping me through my shirt, and I’m hyper-aware of how heavy her touch feels, how my body responds to it like I’ve been waiting for this forever.

She’s still fully clothed, still in control, while I’m a mess under her hands. It’s unfair, but I don’t care. I fumble with her blouse anyway, desperate to feel more of her, and she lets me, chuckling softly as I struggle with the buttons. When I finally get it open, I’m met with the sight of her—full, soft, spilling out of a lacy bra that looks like it costs more than my rent. I stare, probably too long, because she laughs again, this time louder, and I wince, worried someone will hear.

“Go on,” she says, guiding my hand to her chest. “Touch. I don’t bite. Not unless you ask.” Her voice is all honey and smoke, and I’m trembling as I do what she says, marveling at the weight of her, the way her skin feels under my fingertips. She sighs, a small, pleased sound, and it’s the most satisfying thing I’ve ever heard.

Her fingers are still working me, faster now, and I’m close—too close, too soon. I try to tell her, but the words come out jumbled, a breathless mess of “wait” and “oh god.” She doesn’t stop, just presses harder, her thumb doing something wicked that makes my whole body jerk. “Let go,” she murmurs, her lips brushing my neck. “I’ve got you.”

And I do. It hits me hard, a sharp, shuddering rush that leaves me gasping against her shoulder, clutching at her like I’ll fall if I don’t. She holds me through it, her touch slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last aftershock until I’m whimpering, oversensitive and raw.

I’m still catching my breath when she pulls her hand away, wiping it casually on her skirt like it’s nothing. She’s smirking again, satisfied, like she just won some game I didn’t even know we were playing. “Not bad for a first timer,” she says, and I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.

I’m about to say something—maybe thank her, maybe ask what the hell just happened—when she steps back, buttoning her blouse with quick, efficient movements. The shift is jarring. One second she’s all over me, the next she’s… done? I’m still leaning against the shelf, skirt hiked up, legs shaky, and she’s already composed, like nothing happened.

“We should get back,” she says, nodding toward the party noise. Her tone’s casual now, almost distant. “Wouldn’t want Jenna wondering where you’ve gone.”

I blink at her, confused, a little hurt. “That’s it?” I ask before I can stop myself. It sounds pathetic, needy, and I hate it.

She looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a second I think I see something like regret flicker across her face. But it’s gone just as fast. “What’d you expect, kid?” she says, softer this time, but still with that edge. “This isn’t a fairytale. It’s a quick thrill at a party. You got yours. Be happy with that.”

I don’t know how to argue with that, so I just nod, tugging my skirt down with hands that still aren’t steady. She’s right, I guess. I didn’t come here expecting… whatever this was. But as I follow her back toward the laughter and music, my chest feels tight, and not in a good way. I can still feel her on me, the ghost of her touch, the heat of her breath. And I can’t help wondering if I’ve just made a huge mistake.

Because Jenna’s her family, or close enough, and if she ever finds out—if anyone does—this could blow up in my face. Mara doesn’t seem worried, already blending back into the crowd with that same easy smirk, but I’m not her. I’m not used to this, to taking risks and walking away like it’s nothing. I’m standing there, fake-smiling at some dumb toast, and all I can think is: what the hell did I just do? And why do I already want to do it again, even knowing it’s gonna hurt?