three's a crowd | jenna ortega x reader, emma myers x reader

nine

Getting from Emma's apartment back to Jenna's is maybe the fastest you've ever moved in your life.

You stumble back into the party, swollen lips, dark eyes and pray no one notices the lipstick stains on Jenna's jaw, or the fact you're gripping onto her hand for dear life.

Hunter, Emma and Johnna are still dancing, not a care in the world. Joy and Georgie are huddled in the kitchen, deep in conversation.

You feel Jenna against your back, stomach coiling pleasantly as she presses you forward, eager to escape.

And then you're back out into the cool air of the night, giggling slightly in your drunken, love-spun stupor as she guides you down the stairs, hand on your hip.

The apartment isn't far, maybe a fifteen minute walk or so, but Jenna has no time to waste. She calls an Uber, kisses you desperately as you wait for it.

You make out in the back seat of the car, give the driver a real show. Jenna's hands are everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The tops of your thighs under your skirt, the back of your neck, your face, your hips.

You feel like you're on fire by the time you reach her apartment; her hands haven't left your body, not once. She's worked you up maybe more than humanly possible; your body thrums with desire and alcohol and the kind of want only she can satiate.

She offers the driver a spare $50 in cash, looks almost sheepish as she climbs out of the car, you in tow.

You loop your hands around her hips and push her back towards her front door, impatient.

She fiddles with her keys, gets them stuck in the lock a few times. You're pressed against her back, sucking on the nape of her neck, hands roaming. You feel feverish, desperate, like you might explode if she can't open the door in the next minute.

If she can't, you'll fuck her right here against the door, you decide, in your lust-filled haze.

You slip your hands underneath her shirt, feel the warmth of her skin burn underneath you.

And then the door clicks open, and she's spinning around in your arms, taking back her place attached to your lips.

You don't make it far; you grip your hands under her thighs, lift her up and take her in your arms. It's lewd, the way you're kissing her. All lips and tongue, your moans entwining with hers and you carry her past the open door and swing it shut with your foot.

The bedroom was your initial plan, but your grip on her lessens slightly, and she slips back down onto her feet.

And then presses you against the wall.

Picture frames clatter to the floor, but neither of you care. She's pulling you out of your shirt, hungry mouth pressing kisses to every inch of your bare skin. Her hands work expertly on the zipper of your skirt, sending it careening to the floor.

She ducks up to kiss your neck, sucks gently at your pulse point as her hands reach around to grip your ass.

"I want you so bad," She murmurs, "I've wanted you for so long."

"Me too," You say, desperately.

You pull at the buttons on her shirt, fiddling as you try to pry her out of it. She's wearing a black bra, trimmed with red lace. Your mouth waters at the sight. You duck down to press your lips against her collarbone. She tastes so good, sweet, slightly meshed with the salt of her skin. Vanilla body wash, a crisp cinnamon perfume.

You pry her out of her bra, not even stopping to take in the sight before you're fusing your lips to her chest, and taking one of her nipples between your lips.