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When she leans down to kiss me, her long hair falls around us like curtains, blocking out the rest of the world and allowing me to focus on this moment only. Allowing me to not get caught up in thinking about how foolish it is to keep doing this.

Her hair smells like strawberries, and it’s luxuriously soft as it tickles my shoulders and chest. I tangle my fingers in the strands as I grip the back of her neck and lick into her mouth. With her chest pressed against mine, she manages to sneak her hand between us to play with my nipple. I arch up when she tugs on the ring, and I can feel her grin pressed against my own lips as we kiss.

I imagine the rough material of my jean shorts would be uncomfortable between her legs where she’s straddling me, but maybe not, because soon she’s rocking her hips and grinding against me. I slide one hand down to her ass to guide and encourage her. Tiny moans start slipping from her, and I nip at her lips, hoping to elicit more of the delicious sounds.

Grabbing her hips, I flip her over so she’s lying on the bed beside me. We reach for each other, and from there, it becomes almost a competition of who can get the other off the fastest with our hands.

She cheats by ducking her head down and sucking my nipple between her teeth while she plays with my clit. She switches from one to the other and doesn’t let up on them, biting and tugging relentlessly at my piercingsuntil I’m shaking and completely lose focus on what my fingers are doing inside her.

The orgasm builds inside me, then rolls over me like a thunderstorm, and I cry out as lightning flashes behind my eyelids.

When my body settles and I reopen my eyes, I catch the giddy look on Riley’s face. “I won,” she says, her smile so huge you’d think I just called out her name for a Grammy.

“Pretty sureIwon,” I counter, still catching my breath.

She grazes her thumb ever so lightly over my abused nipple, making me shiver with aftershocks. “That was okay, right? I didn’t hurt you?”

“Fuck, Strawberry. That was amazing. I think I’m gonna need three to five business days to recover.”

Her laugh is delighted and full of energy.

Not willing to be outdone by a baby bi, I push her onto her back, determined to make her come as hard as I did. Her laughter dies in her throat when I shove her thighs apart and immediately suck her clit into my mouth. Now she’s gasping and writhing and saying, “Please.”

She doesn’t need to beg. There’s nothing I’d rather be doing than this. Burying my face in her pussy, squeezing her thighs, and letting her dig her fingers into my shoulders as she bucks her hips up.

And afterward, when she’s come down from the orgasm, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than lying in this bed with her, her head resting on my shoulder and our legs tangled together.

We talk in hushed voices about nothing important and drift in and out of sleep. Each time I open my eyes and she’s the first thing I see, my heart does a dangerous little flutter.

I’m not supposed to fall for her.

But it feels like she’s somehow tethered herself to me, like all she has to do is blink in my direction and I’m being pulled toward her.

So yeah. I’m probably screwed.

Isworetomyselfthat I wasn’t going to the damn Mayweather singalong. I may have walked around the festival yesterday, and okay, it wasn’t terrible. But this is ridiculous.

My buzz from drinking at the lake has long since worn off, and now I’m nowhere near intoxicated enough to deal with what I’m witnessing here. All these grown adults sitting around firepits toasting s’mores and belting out the words to cheesy pop songs and rock classics. Although, from the look of it, most of themareintoxicated, so maybe that’s the trick.

I honestly didn’t know what to expect when people told me about the singalong. But it certainly wasn’t something this elaborate. The entire town green is covered in blankets and camping chairs, with plenty of firepits spread out and tables set up beside them with s’mores supplies.

Then there’s one table set up on the edge of the green where Ellie, the children’s librarian, is selling red cups of her apparently famous Mayweather Party Punch. I’ve been warned it’s deceptively strong and the hangover is a killer. Ellie also has blue cups of regular punch for all the teenagers and kids.

Looking around, I see a ton of people holding red cups, and I wonder if I’m being a wuss for fearing the Party Punch. But I do have to drive home after this, while I know most of the Mayweather residents will be walking. Some people have also brought their own beers and seltzers, which I suppose I could have done, but again, I really wasn’t planning on participating in this madness.

The singalong itself is surprisingly organized. There are a few large projector screens set up around the gazebo that have song lyrics scrolling across them like at a karaoke bar. And the whole thing is being led by the high school band director, who is standing on the steps of the gazebo,waving his arms in the air like a conductor, while a handful of students from the band are set up inside it playing the music. I sure hope they’re getting extra credit or something for learning all these songs.

As insane as I find all of this, though, I can’t say I truly regret being here. Because Riley is beside me, sharing a blanket and wearing a cropped white tank top with my flannel tied around her waist. She’s singing along enthusiastically with everyone else, waving her red cup in the air as she does. Her voice somehow sounds as lovely as ever, despite the fact that she’s on her third cup of punch and swaying so much to the music that I’ve had to catch her to keep her from tipping over more than once.

During a break in the songs, she turns toward me, her grin wild and carefree. “I love this!”

“I’m glad you’re having fun,” I tell her.

I notice a tiny smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth from the s’more she ate earlier, so I reach out and wipe it away with my thumb. I do it without really thinking, but then we both freeze, my hand hanging in the air between us. Everyone around us is drunk, and nobody’s paying us any attention. Except for maybe Andrew and Toby, who are sitting a few feet away in the chairs they brought to the lake earlier. But still, I’m aware of the stakes here. I’m aware of how important it is for her not to get caught in another compromising position.

And as much as I hate the fact that her simply being with me would be considered compromising, I never want to be responsible for harming her career. I respect how hard she’s worked for it.

She doesn’t look all that worried, though. Just surprised. And—as her gaze falls to my hand and she leans in toward it—maybe a little turned on. But she’s had enough punch to cloud her judgement, so I do the only thing I can think to do in this moment to stop her from trying to wrap her lips around my thumb. I bring my hand up to my own mouth and suck the bit of chocolate off it.