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The house had that particular Sunday-night quiet, the kind that settles in after a full weekend of fucking, snacking, napping, and fucking again. In the master bedroom, Demi and Bonnie were tangled up

The leftover hum from the vibrator’s remote still buzzed faintly against Demi’s nightstand, a forgotten egg that rolled in lazy circles before settling. She didn’t bother turning it off. The sound was

Demi’s bedroom smelled like coconut oil and the faint, clean ozone of charging silicone. The blackout curtains were drawn against the afternoon sun, casting the room in a perpetual, secretive twilight

The weekend at Demi’s house had already shattered every expectation, leaving the four of them sprawled across her massive bed like survivors of a beautiful disaster. The air was thick with the scent o

The last dollop of cream squeezed out of the tube with a wet, sputtering sound. Demi tossed the empty container into the bathroom trash and leaned back against the mountain of pillows on her bed, her

The Uber dropped Demi three blocks from the club because she wanted the walk. Wanted the humid night air on her bare thighs, wanted the anticipatory click of her heels on the pavement, wanted the eyes

The bathroom mirror was still fogged at the edges from Demi’s shower, but she’d wiped a clear oval right where she needed it. Her copper hair was twisted up in a messy knot, damp tendrils clinging to

The cardboard box sat on Demi’s bathroom counter like a promise she wasn’t sure she believed in yet. Dr. Hartwell had handed it over with a clinical shrug, explaining the experimental topical compound

Demi kicked off her jeans with a grunt of satisfaction, the denim pooling on the bedroom floor like a shed skin. The house had that particular Friday night hum to it—the distant pop of gunfire from th

The dream had been filthy. Not the kind of hazy, half-remembered nonsense that usually evaporated by the time her feet hit the bathroom tiles, but a vivid, technicolor production starring some faceles

The smell of sugar cookies still clung to the kitchen, a remnant of Demi’s afternoon baking binge while Christmas carols blasted from the portable speaker on the counter. Now the speaker was silent, t

The crunch of tires on the gravel driveway sent a jolt through the house. Demi, perched on the arm of the sofa, her long copper hair spilling over her shoulders, shot a wicked grin at Bonnie. “They’r

The truck’s wipers squeaked against the windshield, fighting a losin’ battle against the downpour. Gravel crunched under the tires as Ben pulled up to the fishing cabin, a squat cedar structure tucked

The last of the weekend’s pizza boxes had been shoved into the recycling bin, and the distant rumble of Ben’s truck had faded a good two hours ago. The house settled into a quiet hum, the kind that on

The pizza boxes lay scattered across the coffee table like the aftermath of a delicious crime scene. Grease spots bloomed on the cardboard, and a lone jalapeño slice clung to the lid of the top box, a

The pizza boxes lay abandoned on the coffee table, grease soaking through the cardboard in translucent halos. Demi stretched her arms over her head, her copper hair spilling across the throw pillow sh

Demi yanked the cork from the second bottle of rosé with her teeth and spat it onto the kitchen counter. The wine sloshed as she poured two glasses, the stems clinking against the bottle neck. She’d a

The rain had stopped somewhere around mile four, but Demi’s boots were still squelching with every step down the hallway of the apartment she shared with Ben. Her copper hair was a disaster, a damp ta

The front door clicked shut with a sound Ben had trained himself to recognize over the past two years—the particular weight of it, the pause between the latch catching and the deadbolt sliding home. H

The first fat drops of rain hit the windshield like someone throwing gravel, and Demi swore under her breath, squinting through the glass at the wall of green on either side of the dirt road. “You sa