She Picked Your Bed

Thanksgiving weekend, and your parents' house is loud the second you pull in. Megan's car is already in the driveway, and Megan herself is hauling a duffel out of the trunk — along with someone you don't recognize. Blonde, ponytail, sneakers, grinning at the front door like she lives here.

"Brittany," Megan says. "My best friend. She's staying the weekend, so don't be weird."

"Hi," Brittany says, and looks at you a beat too long. "You must be the brother. Megan talks about you, like, a normal amount."

The hello happens in the driveway, late-afternoon sun going orange. She sticks out her hand like she's meeting a business associate, then completely abandons the handshake to hug you instead. She smells like vanilla and cold air.

"Sorry — I'm a hugger," she says into your shoulder. "You'll get used to it."

"I won't," you say, and she laughs, delighted, like you've handed her a game to play.

Your mom puts everyone to work in the kitchen. Brittany volunteers instantly and is immediately terrible at it — she's never peeled a potato in her life. You end up stationed next to her, showing her how.

"You're such a patient teacher," she murmurs, potato half-peeled, eyes on you instead of the knife. "Most people would've given up on me by now."

"Most people don't have a choice. You're here till Sunday."

"Lucky them," she says, and bumps her hip against yours like it was nothing.

Dinner is loud — your dad's stories, Megan arguing about her flight home, your mom refilling wine glasses. Brittany sits across from you and does not look at you for the first ten minutes.

Then her sneaker taps your foot under the table. Once. She keeps talking to your mom about her psychology program, face completely innocent.

Tap. Tap. Her toes slide up your ankle.

You take a drink of water and stare dead ahead.

Under the table, the game escalates. She's resting her foot flat against your shin now, warm through her sock, while telling your dad that no, she's never had a home-cooked Thanksgiving, and yes, she's having the best time.

"Brittany, more potatoes?" your mom asks.

"Please," Brittany says, and presses her foot harder against your leg when she says it.

Megan glances between you. "You two okay? You're both weirdly quiet."

"Turkey coma," Brittany says sweetly.

After dinner, people scatter — your dad to football, Megan to the shower. You escape to the back porch with a beer and thirty seconds of silence before the door opens behind you.

"Found you," Brittany says. She comes and stands at the rail next to you, shoulder almost touching yours. Cold enough that her breath fogs.

"About the foot thing," you say.

"What foot thing?" She grins. "You liked it."

"You're my sister's best friend. You're sleeping ten feet from her."

"I know." She looks out at the dark yard. "That's kind of the fun part, isn't it? The stuff you're not supposed to want being, like, the only stuff you can think about." She turns her head, close now. "Because I've been thinking about it since the driveway."

You don't move. She doesn't either. The kitchen light is on behind the glass; anyone could look out.

"Goodnight," she whispers, and goes inside first.

You work a late shift — your boss begged, the money's good, and you could use the excuse to be anywhere but in that house tonight. When you get home at two a.m., the house is black except the stove light. You creep upstairs past Megan's door.

Your own bedroom door is open.

And there's someone in your bed. Blonde hair spread on your pillow, one bare arm over the blanket, curled up on her side.

You sit on the edge of the mattress and touch her shoulder gently. "Brittany. Hey. Wrong bed."

Her eyes open instantly — fully awake, zero grogginess, like she'd been lying there listening for you. "Nope. Right bed."

"That's my bed."

"I know." She lifts the edge of the blanket in invitation. Warm, sleep-soft body underneath, one of your old t-shirts, nothing else. "Megan kicks like a mule and I couldn't sleep. And I figured — you were working late, and if you came home..." She shrugs, holding the blanket open. "I wanted to be where you'd end up."

"Everyone's asleep."

"Then be quiet," she whispers. "I'm very good at quiet. You have no idea."

You give up being smart. You slide in, and she's on you immediately — under the blanket, mouth finding your mouth in the dark, kissing you slow and deep like she's been waiting all day for exactly this. Her hands shove your shirt up and roam your chest.

"Off," she breathes, tugging. You pull it over your head and her palms flatten on your skin. "God, okay. Hi. Finally."

You reach down and find her bare thigh, slide up — she's already soaked, hot and slick under your fingers, and she bites your pillow to keep from moaning when you touch her.

"Fuck —" she whispers into the cotton. "Fingers, yeah, right there — keep doing that, don't stop —"

She comes fast and quiet, shaking against your hand, teeth in your shoulder to muffle it. Then she pushes you onto your back and works your belt in the dark, quick and eager, and takes your cock in her hand like she's been thinking about it all through dinner.

"Since the driveway," she confirms, reading your mind, and licks the head, then wraps her lips around you.

The wet heat of her mouth, the obscene soft sounds she's trying to keep down — you fist a hand in the sheets. She lifts her head long enough to whisper, "Tell me if you're gonna cum, I want it in me," and goes back down.

She climbs up your body and straddles you, lifting the t-shirt off. In the faint light from the window you finally see her — breasts, hard pink nipples, the curve of her waist — and she takes your cock and rubs the head through her wet pussy, teasing you both.

"Megan's through that wall," you whisper.

"I know." She sinks down onto you, inch by inch, and her eyes flutter shut. She exhales shakily through her nose, silent, and then starts to move. Slow, grinding circles, her palms flat on your chest, biting her lip every time it gets too good.

You flip her onto her back without pulling out, and she wraps her legs around you, pulling you deeper. "Yes — like that — hard as you want, I'll stay quiet, I promise —" and she keeps the promise by pressing her own hand over her mouth while you fuck her, the bed frame bumping the wall in a rhythm you pray is quieter from Megan's side.

Her pussy is soaked, gripping you, and when she cums a second time she arches and makes no sound at all, just trembles underneath you, eyes squeezed shut. That's what does it — you bury yourself deep and cum inside her, groaning into her neck, both of you shaking.

She's giggling five minutes later, quietly, curled into your side with the blanket over both of you.

"What?"

"Your mom's gonna ask me at breakfast how I slept," she whispers. "And I'm gonna say 'amazing, best sleep I've had in months,' and you're gonna have to sit there and eat your eggs."

"You're evil."

"Mm." She kisses your jaw. "You picked the wrong bed to come home to. Or the right one." She pulls your arm around her like a body pillow. "Wake me before anyone's up. I need to sneak back to Megan's room with terrible bedhead."

Morning. The kitchen smells like bacon and coffee. You come down and Brittany is already there in pajama shorts, hair in a messy bun, helping your mom with pancakes like she's been doing it for years.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she says brightly. Then, to your mom: "He works so hard, that late shift. Poor thing."

"Eat up," your mom says, sliding you a plate.

Under the table, Brittany's bare foot finds your ankle and stays there through the whole meal.

When Megan and Brittany leave Sunday, Brittany hugs you goodbye on the driveway — a long one, extra squeeze at the end, her mouth near your ear.

"She's coming back for Christmas," Megan calls from the car. "If that's okay."

"That's okay," you say.

Brittany just smiles at you over the roof of the car, chewing her gum, and doesn't say a single word. She doesn't have to.