Alena kicked off her Vans and dropped her worn skateboard by the cabin door. The screen door slapped shut behind her. Maria was already sprawled on the bottom bunk, her floral sundress rucked up to show creamy thigh. Two weeks at this goddamn culinary camp and they'd barely touched. A couple of hand-holds walking back from the mess hall. A shoulder lean during a late-night smoke. That was it. But the way Maria's eyes kept sliding down Alena's forearm—that tattooed ink wrapping lean muscle—said everything.

"I call top bunk," Alena said, tossing her duffel.

"You hate heights." Maria stretched, her full tits straining the cotton.

Alena's jaw tightened. "Fine. Bottom with you."

The mattress dipped. Their hips brushed. Maria smelled like vanilla extract and cheap strawberry lip gloss. Alena's fingers itched to touch that soft waist, those love handles, that thick ass she caught Maria squeezing when she thought no one was looking.

"You've been staring at my mouth," Maria whispered. "Every damn day at the range. When I pipe custard. When I bite my pen."

"Maybe I want a taste."

Maria blushed deep. "We haven't... I mean, have you ever—"

"Don't ask stupid questions."

Alena rolled on top, black tank riding up to flash toned abs. Maria gasped—that cute little intake of breath that made Alena's clit throb. She traced Maria's jaw, then her collarbone, then the swell of her breast above the sundress. No bra. Fuck.

"I want to see you," Alena said