A/N: If you are a homphobe, and did not stop at the warning, then READ NO FURTHER. This story contains two girls kissing, touching, and doing other things. If you don't like, DON'T READ!
As for those of you who like this kind of thing...read and enjoy! And review! I might go further into this if enough people like it.


Her kisses were soft, but sloppy, like she wasn't exactly sure what to do. I was no expert, either, but I smiled uncontrollably at her sheer clumsy cautiousness. I probably looked like a madman. She glanced at my face, completely confused, and I rubbed her thigh gently.

"I love you so much, it almost hurts." I kissed her this time, neater, but more forcefully. I didn't want her to worry about what I said, she was the kind of person who would. She was a quiet type of girl, a girl who was always afraid she'd do something wrong. Her sentences were stuttered, and she had a dorky yet smart type of vibe. I loved it.

Her lack of conversational skills were replaced, however, by the way she romanced. Not many people saw this side of her, if any. I had stolen her first kiss, as she had mine, a special bond that would keep us together longer than average.

She smiled back at me, a stretched, braces-filled smile, a smile I loved. She was probably wary of the hand on her thigh, my rough and slightly tanned hand. I never went any farther than her boundaries, even though my body and soul shouted that I wanted to. "I love you," I whispered again, holding her hand with my free one, our foreheads resting on one anothers.

We would spend hours on end alone in my room, touching, kissing, and talking. I savored every moment I had with her, knowing it could be my last. I would whisper her name over and over again, a name that would always be beautiful to me. "Shayla, Shayla, Shayla."

Her eyes moved downward as she placed a hand on my chest, tracing a scar that was most likely permanent. It was a scar I had in mourn of my first female love. She wasn't dead, of course, but I knew she would never return the feeling. Love is a bitch, sometimes.

"It, it'll never go away, will it?" she asked softly, her lips puckered slightly. "A lasting reminder of what she did to you, the way you felt." Her hand moved farther down my breast, and I couldn't stop the shiver of pleasure that ran through my body.

"Are you actually being sympathetic," I asked, half-jokingly, "or just trying to tease me?" My grip on her hand tightened, it was taking every ounce of my control to resist jumping her then and there, covering her with kisses and other things. I involuntarily blinked twice, a giveaway to what I was thinking that she had come to recognize.

"You know," she whispered, sounding unbearably sexy, "you don't have to hold back for me, as long as you don't smother me with that ginormous chest of yours." Our foreheads were still pressed together, and I was almost certain she noticed the sweat that was beginning to form on mine. She leaned her mouth dangerously close, open and practically begging to be claimed. When I could feel my pulse everywhere in my body I knew she was teasing me, and I was falling, hard.

It was the perfect moment to say "screw you", and I would have, but at that point I was too busy sucking and biting on her bottom lip. She was doing the same thing to my upper lip, and we were still in our previous positions, hands entwined and resting on each other's bodies. She could probably feel my pulse through my skin, and I pushed my hand farther up her leg, begging to have more of her.

"Jessie," she gasped as discreetly as she could, interrupting our activities, "when do your 'rents get home?"

"Not for a while," I whispered back, covering her mouth with mine before she could protest. Her mouth tasted good, salty and sweet like the noodles we had ate earlier. Her tongue felt wonderful in my mouth, hot and wet.

I was born with the first name Jessica, but learned to despise it so much as I grew older that I later changed it to Jess. She would add the girly suffix to my name, taking advantage of the fact that she was the only one who could.

Stopping for quick bursts of air was a common routine between us, one that required minimal amounts of time. She knew that once I was on a roll I wouldn't stop for many things. I don't think she minded, either, there was a burning flame beneath that dorky, clumsy cover.

I was the one to break our position, pulling back my hands to snake one in her hair and wrap my arm around her waist. She loved romantic crap like this, I knew, her eyes were closed gently as her lashes made the thinnest of shadows on her cheeks. I could imagine her face, the image so beautiful I almost cried out loud. "I love you so much," I gasped, breaking the kiss and holding her close. I didn't ever want to let her go.

When we were lying on my bed, seconds later, me on top, making hickies on her neck, she knew I meant it. She knew by the way I was still holding her, even though it hurt my hands. She knew by the way I was grinding my hips into hers. She knew by the way I would gasp her name every so often.

And by the way her back arched under me, the way she clutched my face, the way she moaned my name back to me, I knew she loved me too.

When we stopped after a while, fully clothed and breathless, my body asked for more. It was a request I often denied, rarely accepted when I was home alone, locked up in my bathroom. I was maturing years beyond my age, and at times it was painful.

Shayla wasn't ready to go all the way, but I was ready to wait.