Chapter 5: The Setup
(Chapter 5)
Britta’s apartment smelled like microwaved soup and the ghost of a joint she’d smoked two nights ago. Annie’s leg bounced under the table, a frantic piston keeping time with her heart. She had pulled the vibrator from her bag—an impulsive prop, solid and alien in her small hand—and set it next to a highlighter like it was just another tool.
“See?” Britta said, her phone face-up on the stained wood. The text to Jeff glowed, simple and loaded. Studying at my place with Annie. Pop-able? “It’s non-committal. It leaves the door open, literally and metaphorically, for his rampant ego to walk right through.”
Annie stared at the vibrator. “Right. Metaphorically.”
“Yeah. Are you hyperventilating?”
“No. Yes.” Annie snatched the device and shoved it back in her bag. “Maybe this is a horrible plan.”
“It is a horrible plan,” Britta agreed cheerfully, lighting a cigarette. “But it’s our horrible plan. The important thing is to take it slow. We don’t just… pounce. It’s a dance.”
“A dance where we lick… stuff… off each other.”
“Yes, Annie. It’s a Baroque dance, very sophisticated.”
A few heartbeats later, Jeff’s reply buzzed.
Pop-able? I just got out of Sandler’s boring info-security lecture. So yes. My virtue needs corrupting.
“Virtue,” Britta snorted. “He’s such a work of fiction.”
The next twenty minutes were a blur of chaos Annie tried to organize. Britta cursed as she tried to find a clean bra. Annie’s hands trembled as she stripped out of her panda-bedecked sweatshirt, revealing the simple black chemise she’d changed into in the library bathroom. It felt ridiculously thin. The streetlight from Britta’s window cut through the blinds, striping her pale skin.
“He’s going to see right through this,” Annie whispered, bunching the fabric in her fists.
“Of course he is. He’s a lawyer. He sees through everything,” Britta said, emerging from her room in a dark purple matching set, all sharp angles and shadows. She’d taken the hard-light from the floor lamp and draped a shawl over it, softening the room into something dim and conspiratorial. “The point isn’t to fool him. The point is to make an offer he’d be legally incompetent to refuse.”
A solid knock at the door—Jeff’s knock, confident and expecting entry.
Their eyes locked. The air went out of the room.
Britta gave a tiny, sharp nod. You or me? she mouthed.
Annie, swallowing the lump of pure adrenaline in her throat, pointed to herself. She would open it. The first step of the plan. She slid off the kitchen stool, her bare feet silent on the scuffed floorboards.
She opened the door.
Jeff stood there in his usual dark-wash jeans and a grey Henley, a six-pack of imported beer dangling from one hand. He looked tired, but the weary smirk was already forming. It froze halfway.
His eyes travelled down, then up. They widened just a fraction. The smirk didn’t fade; it recalibrated, became something more curious, more focused. He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, his gaze lingering on the lace at her chest, the strap on her shoulder.
“Well,” he said, his voice a low, warm baritone that seemed to vibrate in the hollow of her stomach. “This is a new syllabus.”
“Hi, Jeff,” Annie managed, sounding breathier than she intended. She stepped back, letting him in.
He crossed the threshold, the casual swagger slightly off-balance. He saw Britta by the couch, leaning against the back of it in her lingerie, arms crossed, a challenge in her posture. He stopped, setting the beer down on the floor with a soft clink of bottles. His gaze ping-ponged between them. The air in the apartment thickened, charged with something that hummed louder than the fridge.
“Seriously?” he said, a genuine laugh escaping him. “Is this a dare? Did Pierce bet you guys fifty bucks you couldn’t?”
“Annie had a question about her vibrator,” Britta said dryly, gesturing to the bag on the table. “We got sidetracked.”
Jeff’s eyebrows shot up. “Her vibrator.”
“Yeah. Pop-able, you said. We popped,” Annie said, the line rehearsed in her head a hundred times. It landed with a thud, but he just stared, his lawyer-brain visibly whirring behind his eyes, assessing the evidence.
Then Britta moved. She pushed off the couch and closed the distance.The plan. Step two. No more talking.
She put a hand flat on his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the soft cotton, and leaned up. She kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It was all open mouth and intention, her tongue finding his immediately. A low, surprised groan rumbled in his throat. One of his hands came up to grip her waist, the other still hanging at his side, fisted slightly.
Annie watched, her pulse a drum in her ears. She saw Britta’s back arch, saw Jeff’s knuckles go white where he held her. The visual was dizzying. It was working.
Britta pulled back, her lips slick. She shot a look at Annie over her shoulder—now.
Annie crossed the three feet of space like she was wading through syrup. Jeff’s eyes, dark and confused with building hunger, slid to her. Britta shifted, turning him slightly, her hand still on his chest, guiding him like a dance partner towards Annie.
Annie kissed him.
It was different. Softer at first, exploratory. He tasted of mint and the beer he must have had earlier. His hand left Britta’s waist and came to cup Annie’s jaw, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. It was achingly tender for a second, and it nearly broke her resolve.This was Jeff. Her friend. The person she’d pined for, studied with, fought with.
Then she deepened the kiss, mirroring Britta’s aggression. She felt him shudder. His other hand found her hip, pulling her closer. He was between them now, a current of heat passing through him from one woman to the other.
Britta’s mouth was on his neck, her teeth grazing his earlobe. “Off guard yet, Winger?” she murmured, her voice husky.
He let out a shaky breath against Annie’s mouth. “I’m… formulating a defense.”
They worked him like that for minutes that felt like hours. A kiss from Britta, fierce and demanding. A kiss from Annie, sweet and laced with a new, dark curiosity. Hands roaming, but never going too far. Keeping the pressure building, the confusion sweet. Britta unbuttoned his Henley, pushing it off his shoulders. Annie ran her hands over the planes of his chest, learning the geography of him. He tried to take control, to steer them towards the couch, but they were a unit, a tandem, a shared purpose.
“Okay,” he finally gasped, pulling his mouth from Annie’s, his breath ragged. “Okay, you’ve made your point. This is… collaborative.”
Britta smiled, a predator’s grin in the half-light. She sank to her knees in front of him, her fingers working his belt, his zipper. Annie stayed at his side, kissing his shoulder, his collarbone, whispering things she’d only ever thought. “We wanted to see,” she breathed. “We planned it. For you.”
He looked down at Britta, then at Annie, his composure in tatters. “You… planned.”
Britta didn’t answer with words. She took him into her mouth, and his head fell back with a strangled sound. His hand came up to tangle in Annie’s hair, holding on like she was an anchor.
Annie watched, mesmerized. This was the part Britta had described in the library, but seeing it was something else entirely. The raw, slick sounds. The way his body tensed and relaxed. The focused, almost academic look on Britta’s face. Annie’s own desire was a tight, hot coil inside her, but it was secondary to the mission. The payoff.
She kissed him again, swallowing his moans. She could feel the tension coiling in him, the inevitable snap nearing. Britta sensed it too, her pace quickening, one hand firm on his hip.
“Britta,” he choked out, a warning, a plea.
Britta pulled back, her lips swollen and gleaming. She looked at Annie, a wild, shared understanding passing between them. Now.
Her eyes held Annie’s, bright and demanding. “My face,” she said, the words clear and deliberate, her voice rough from use but perfectly steady. “I want it on my face.”
Annie’s body moved before her mind fully processed the command. It was the culmination of their whispered plan in the stale library air, now distilled into this electric, viscous moment.
She released Jeff’s shoulder and dropped to her knees beside Britta, her smaller hand replacing Britta’s on him. He was thick and slick with saliva, the skin hot and velvety under her frantic touch. Jeff groaned, a raw sound of pure astonishment, his hips jerking forward into the new, unfamiliar grip. He looked down, his gaze clouded and disbelieving, watching Annie’s prim, determined fingers work him.
“Jesus, Annie—”
“Shut up and come,” Britta commanded, tilting her face up like a sunbather. Her expression was one of fierce concentration, her lips parted, eyes locked on his. It wasn’t seductive; it was a challenge.
Annie’s rhythm was unpracticed but effective, driven by a singular goal. She felt the exact moment everything in him gathered, coiled, and broke. He cried out, a fractured syllable, and his body went rigid. Annie aimed, her hand a frantic guide. The first hot stripe hit Britta’s cheekbone, just below her eye. The next splashed across her lips.
Britta didn’t flinch. Her eyes closed slowly. A thick droplet clung to her lower lash. More landed on her chin, her throat, tracing paths through the hollow of her collarbone and onto her chest. The smell was sharp, animal, utterly out of place in Britta’s sterile apartment. Annie’s hand kept moving, milking the last pulses onto Britta’s sternum until Jeff shuddered and grabbed her wrist, gently pulling her away.
Silence descended, broken only by their ragged breathing. Britta’s eyes opened. She looked victorious, and utterly surreal. She ran her tongue over her top lip, collecting a taste, her gaze finding Annie’s.
A tremor ran through Annie, a cocktail of shock, triumph, and dizzying arousal. The barrier had not just been crossed; it had been smeared. Britta gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
“Okay,” Britta said softly, her voice hoarse. “Your turn.” She leaned in, her face glistening, and closed the space between her mouth and Annie’s.
The kiss was a shock of salt and heat and profound intimacy. Annie tasted it all—him, Britta, the metallic tang of their shared audacity. Britta’s tongue pushed the substance into her mouth, and Annie accepted it, her own moan lost in the transfer. It was messy, experimental, and exactly as they’d imagined in Study Room F, but the reality was a hundred times more potent.
Annie’s mind went blank, flooded with sensation. Her own small sound, a choked gasp of surprise, was swallowed by Britta's mouth. The taste was dominant, unfamiliar, and shockingly intimate. Britta’s hands came up, fingers tangling in Annie’s hair, holding her there in the slick, shared kiss.
When Britta finally pulled back, a thin string of saliva and spent fluid connected their lips for a second before snapping. Britta’s face was a glistening map of it. Her expression was unreadable, fierce and open. "Now," Britta breathed, her voice shredded raw. "Clean me up."
The command cut through the haze. Annie stared at the trails drying on Britta's cheek, the droplet on her lash. A tremor, deep and seismic, rattled Annie's ribs. This was the part she hadn't fully let herself picture. Theory in a dusty study room was one thing. The doing was something else entirely.
She leaned forward, her own movements slow, deliberate. Her tongue touched Britta's skin just below her eye, where the first stripe had landed.
The salt hit her taste buds first, then the deeper, muskier flavor beneath. Britta’s breath hitched, a sharp intake. Annie’s eyes were open, watching Britta’s eyelashes flutter. She lapped slowly, following the path down Britta’s cheekbone towards the corner of her mouth. The skin was warm, slightly sticky. Each swipe of her tongue felt like a confession, an act more vulnerable than anything before it.
She cleaned the strong line of Britta’s jaw, her chin. She could feel the faint tremble in Britta’s thighs where they knelt beside each other. Annie’s own heart was a frantic bird against her sternum. She reached Britta’s mouth, where the residue was thickest on her full lower lip.
Annie paused, her lips a millimeter from Britta’s. Their eyes locked. Britta’s were dark, pupils blown wide, her usual sarcasm burned away. Annie saw only a raw, waiting hunger that mirrored the ache in her own belly.
Annie kissed her. It was soft, a closed-mouth press. Then she slid her tongue along the seam of Britta’s lips, collecting what was left there. She gathered it all, the accumulated taste of the entire night, into her own mouth.
She pulled back, holding it. Britta watched her, understanding dawning. Annie gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Britta opened her mouth, just slightly. An invitation.
Annie leaned in again, her hand coming up to cradle Britta’s jaw. She kissed her, deep and slow, and transferred everything back. She pushed her tongue into Britta’s mouth, sharing the slick, spent warmth. Britta moaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through both of them. Her hands flew to Annie’s shoulders, fingers digging into the thin straps of the chemise.
They kissed like that, trading the same substance back and forth until the taste blurred and became just them—sweat, shared breath, and a sharp, coppery edge of pure need. The kiss broke, but their foreheads stayed pressed together, both breathing in ragged, synchronized pants.
"God," Britta whispered, the word smoke.
Then her hands were everywhere. One slid down Annie’s back, pulling her flush. The other cupped her through the damp lace of her underwear. Annie cried out, her hips bucking forward into the contact. Britta’s touch was not like Jeff’s tentative explorations earlier; it was sure, demanding, fueled by the same manic energy that had launched this whole plan.
Annie's hands scrambled, finding the clasp of Britta’s bra. She fumbled, her fingers slick and clumsy.It came undone. She pushed the straps down, her mouth finding Britta's nipple, sucking hard through the thin fabric of her lingerie before pulling it aside. Britta arched, a broken sound escaping her.
They fell into a clumsy, kneeling tangle on the hard floor, their movements ungraceful and frantic. Annie’s skirt was pushed up around her waist. Britta’s hand slid inside her underwear, fingers sliding through her wetness with a blunt, shocking pressure.
"Fuck, Annie," Britta groaned against her neck. "You're soaked."
"You," Annie gasped, her own hand finding its way into Britta's panties, mirroring the desperate rhythm. "You too."
They ground against each other's hands, a frantic, messy rhythm. The synthetic rug burned Annie's knees. The smell of sex and the spent fluid drying on their skin filled the air. It was inelegant, noisy, and shockingly fast. Their shared gaze held a burning, incredulous awe.
This was it. The peak of the experiment. Every whispered fantasy in the library, every nervous glance, every strategic text was just kindling for this sudden, uncontrollable fire. Britta’s breathing grew ragged, her movements becoming short, sharp jerks. Annie felt the coiling tightness in her own belly snap.
Britta came first, her body seizing, her teeth sinking into Annie’s shoulder to stifle a cry. The convulsion of her hips against Annie's hand was the final trigger. Annie’s vision whited out. Pleasure tore through her, sharp and shocking, wringing a choked gasp from her throat.
They collapsed against each other, a heap of trembling limbs and damp fabric. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the distant wail of a siren. Britta’s forehead rested on Annie’s collarbone, her breath hot on Annie’s skin.
Slowly, Britta lifted her head. She looked wrecked. Her makeup was smeared, her hair a wild dark cloud. A slow, dazed smile spread across her face.
"So," she rasped, her voice barely audible. "Got an A-plus on the collaborative project."