It’s the wine – it has to be, right?!
After all, it’s not like Wanda’s gay, or anything like that – it’s just that, she’s had a bit too much to drink, and it’s not like Agnes isn’t pretty, with her big, curly black hair, and bright, skintight dance clothes that hug her curves in all the right places -
She bites down on the inside of her bottom lip, lifts her eyes up to where they should’ve been all along: upon Agnes’ face. A blush, dark and hot, erupts almost immediately, begins to spread its way out across her skin with just as much ease -
“Like what you see, sweet pea?” the older woman drawls, “I promise I won’t tell.”
“Um,” Wanda’s blush deepens, darkens, “yes?”
Laughter, rich and molten, fills the air. “Oh, good,” Agnes purrs, “’cause I can be whatever you want me to be.”
Tilt her head, consider her options as she looks Agnes over, long and slow and open. “Are you sure?” she asks, “I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you . . .”
“Oh, honey,” a knowing smirk begins to tug upon painted lips, curls them up at the edges as Agnes lifts her glass to her lips, drains the last of her wine, “I wouldn’t have suggested anything if I wasn’t sure.”
“Oh, good,” Wanda sighs, relief bubbling up in her chest as she sets her wine glass aside, “’cause I’d really like to take you up on that.”
Agnes hums, inclines her head. “What’re you doing over there, then?” she asks, voice low and lilting beneath the flutter of long, curling lashes over dancing, mirthful eyes, “wouldn’t it make more sense for you to be over here, with me?”
Desire, molten and hot, rushes into Wanda’s veins, gathers between her thighs. “Wha – what if I thought it made more sense,” she counters, “for you, to be over here, with me?”
Dark lips purse, curve, curl, as Agnes leans forth, sets her own wine glass down on the coffee table next to Wanda’s. “Well, who am I to say, ‘no’ to such a pretty face as yours?” she croons over the groaning of the sofa beneath them, “especially when there’s such fun to be had?!”