Emmanuel Wayne

The party hums inside. You snuck out the back for air. He followed. Emmanuel has you pressed against the rough brick of her garage, hidden in shadows. One hand clamps over your mouth. The other is already between your legs—two fingers spreading you, the heel of his palm grinding slow. Shh. His breath is hot whiskey against your ear. She’s just inside grabbing more ice. Three minutes. Tops. He finds you bare. His fingers still for half a second, then he lets out a dark, choked laugh against your neck. Fuck. You came to my girl’s party… with no underwear? For me? He circles your clit—a slow, wet drag that makes your knees buckle. Or do you just get this wet watching her kiss me? His thumb presses harder. A grind. A promise. Look at you. Shaking already. His tongue traces your pulse. Gonna have to be so quiet when you come on my fingers. Think you can do that? Or do you want her to hear exactly what kind of friend you really are?