It’s weird to think the most unexpected, hottest night of my life started with a rainstorm and a stupid, broken umbrella. I’d known Zoe since freshman year at NYU—brash laugh, messy curls, those sharp, too-honest eyes. We’d been through everything together: bad breakups, late-night cramming, tequila disasters. Never once in five years had I looked at her and thought, “Yeah, I want to fuck her.” Until last Friday.
It was supposed to be just two best friends getting soaked, sharing fries and beer at the grimy little corner bar we’d loved since college. The city was breathing in warm, humid air—the kind that makes your skin stick to your clothes. We huddled into our usual booth, Zoe in her oversized blue T-shirt, ripped jeans, and muddy Converse, her curls plastered to her cheeks.
“You look like somebody dunked you in the East River,” I teased, grinning over the rim of my glass. She flipped me off and stole a fry from my plate.
We talked about everything and nothing—her annoying new boss, my on-again-off-again fuckbuddy moving to Chicago, our parents nagging us to get our shit together. The rain kept hammering outside. By midnight, the bar thinned out, the city blurred behind streaky glass and neon.
“Shit,” Zoe muttered, checking her dead phone. “Uber prices are insane. Yours working?”
I shook my head, pulling my sopping jacket tight. “Forget Uber. Stay at mine.”
She hesitated, eyes darting up to mine. It caught me off guard. Zoe never thought twice about crashing on my couch after a night out. But tonight, I saw something flicker across her face—something I couldn’t read.
“You’re sure?” she said, voice uneven.
“Yeah, sure. Come on. Unless you want to swim back to Brooklyn.”
She laughed, but it was different this time. Maybe everything was different that night—maybe it was just the way we stumbled through the wet streets, her hand brushing mine, maybe it was the way she looked at me in the elevator, her shirt clinging to her skin, outlining her bra, her nipples pressing through, and suddenly I was embarrassingly aware of her body in a way I never had been before.
We got to my place. I handed her a towel, tried to act normal as she stripped off her shirt in my tiny living room and wrapped herself up. Her jeans followed, leaving her standing there in black underwear, damp and unapologetically half-naked, talking about something banal while I poured us each a whiskey.
I tried not to stare, failed utterly. I know she saw me. I could see it in the half-smile at the corner of her lips.
“Got anything I can wear to bed?” she asked, spinning around with her back to me, towel dropping to the floor.
Fuck. “Yeah, uh, hold on.” I rummaged for a T-shirt, tossed it at her without looking. But I still saw the side of her breast—small, perky, the kind of simple beauty that you don’t notice until it’s right there in front of you and you’re dying to touch it.
We settled onto the couch, drinks in hand, an old sitcom playing in the background. For a while, things felt normal. I tried not to let my mind wander. But the blanket was small, and we were pressed together, thigh-to-thigh, her leg warm against mine. Her scent—something sweet and a little spicy—wrapped around me.
She looked up at me, laughter fading from her eyes. “You’re staring,” she said, voice low, not really accusing.
“I know,” I said, honest because I couldn’t help it. Something inside me snapped. “You look…different tonight.”
“Yeah?” she asked, shifting a bit closer, her voice teasing but softer than usual. “How?”
My breath caught. Weeks of frustration with random hookups, months of late-night loneliness, the bite of the whiskey—all the excuses in the world couldn’t explain how hungry I suddenly felt looking at her.
I didn’t move. I let the air burn. She brushed her hand across my knee, just once, then let it rest there.
“You sure about this?” I heard myself whisper, not trusting my voice. “I don’t want to fuck things up. You’re my best friend, Zoe.”
Her lips curved, almost shy, which made my heart pound stupidly. “Maybe I want you to fuck things up. For once.”
She kissed me—fast at first, shy almost, then deeper, harder as I pulled her onto my lap. Her body pressed against me, warm and urgent, her hands threading around my neck, tugging my hair.
It was clumsy and desperate, like we’d waited years too long. Our teeth clashed, tongues searching, her body grinding against me. The feeling was overwhelming—a heat I hadn’t expected, her skin beneath my hands softer than I’d imagined, the taste of her lips addicting.
We broke apart for a breath. Her hands slipped under my T-shirt; her fingers dragged down my torso, pausing at the edge of my waistband.
“Still sure?” she asked, voice rough.
It was my turn to hesitate—a thousand memories of childhood sleepovers, long walks, heartbreaks shared across midnight texts. But when she pressed her hips against me, the only answer left was need.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “God, yes.”
We stumbled blindly to my bedroom, shedding clothes. Her mouth found the hollow of my neck, my chest, her fingers digging into my back, scratching deep tracks into my skin. I let my hands roam—her waist, her hips, down her thighs, hungrily, greedily.
I pulled her onto the bed, hovering over her, both of us gasping, mouths and hands everywhere. I slid her panties off slowly, savoring the way her breath hitched, my fingers finally where I’d wanted all night. She was wet, aching, bucking against my hand, moaning my name in a voice I’d never heard from her before.
“Fuck,” she whispered, “don’t stop.”
I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. My mouth trailed lower, tasting her, her thighs trembling, her hands clutching at my hair as I lost myself in her. She arched against my tongue, cried out, hips shuddering.
Zoe pulled me up, kissed me hard—hungry, wild, tasting herself on my lips. She pushed me onto my back, straddling me, her eyes glazed and fierce. She slid onto me with a groan, her body hot and slick, wrapping around me in a way that felt both impossibly new and totally right.
She rocked her hips, slow at first, then faster, chasing her own pleasure. I gripped her ass, matching her rhythm.
“Don’t hold back,” she whispered, digging her nails into my chest.
I didn’t. We crashed together, limbs tangled and sweat-slicked, strangers and best friends all at once. I came hard, shuddering beneath her, feeling her tighten, her breath stuttering out as she fell apart around me.
After, we lay tangled, catching our breath, the rain easing outside. I was scared that the silence would be awkward, that the years of friendship would crumble beneath what we’d just done. But she just curled into my side, drew lazy circles on my skin with her fingers.
“So, uh,” she said quietly, “Next time, can I have the bigger blanket?”
I snorted, pressing a kiss to her hair. “As long as you trade for your side of the bed.”
She laughed, a warm, rumbling sound, pressing closer. And I realized—maybe fucking things up was exactly what we both needed.