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.