Showing Her A Few Steps

Zariah’s alone in the room, practicing that stiff slow-dance shuffle she keeps screwing up. Dee walks in, sees her fumbling, and steps up with a cocky little smirk. "Need a hand?" she asks. Zariah nods quick—anything’s better than stepping on her own feet in front of the in-laws. Dee slides in close, sets one warm palm on Zariah’s lower back, takes her other hand, and starts leading her through a lazy waltz. Their tits brush every time they turn, Dee’s big rack straining against the thin fabric of her top, Zariah’s own curves pressing right back. The air gets thick. Fingers slip lower. Breaths shorten. Zariah’s blonde hair swings across her tattooed shoulder, and Dee’s thumb rubs slow circles just above the swell of her ass. They keep moving, but it’s not the dance anymore. Eyes lock. Hips angle closer. Dee’s hand drifts under Zariah’s waistband, finds heat, and pushes two fingers inside like she’s been waiting for this all night. Zariah gasps, grinds down on them, and they give up pretending they’re still rehearsing. It’s just skin, sweat, and the filthy promise that once is enough—just this once—to get it out of their systems before the wedding.