Normally, she’s too hard to pin down—too neutral, too unreadable. But drunk Chloe?
Drunk Chloe isfun, fun.
We’re leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping our drinks, as people shout and spill liquor all around us.
“So —Chloe tilts her head at me, eyes slightly unfocused—“Did you get laid at camp?”
I snort, nearly choking on my drink. “Jesus. That’s abrupt.”
She shrugs, smirking. “You’ve been all mysterious about it. Spill.”
I roll my eyes but answer anyway.
“Once. It was…” I make a vague, wobbly motion with my hand.
Chloe raises a brow. “Underwhelming?”
“Incredibly.” I sigh.
“Damn. And here I thought those outdoorsy adventure guys knew how to use their hands.”
“You’d think.” I sigh. “Turns out confidence doesn’t equal competence.”
And just like that, I’m back in that creaky twin bed at camp. Vinnie—sweet, sweaty, and somehow still smelling like bug spray—was trying so hard. But it was like being fondled by a teenager. I was bored halfway through. He couldn’t even meet my eye afterward. Spent the rest of summer flinching every time we passed each other, which sucked. He was nice. We could’ve been friends.
Chloe laughs, bumping my hip. “See? This is why I keep telling you—you need to get out of your head and get some real, brain-melting sex.”
I snort again. “Yeah? Where exactly do I find that? Is there, like, a waiting list?”
She grins like she has a secret.
“You’re at a party. Full of hot, drunk frat guys.Pick one.”
I raise a skeptical brow.
“What?” Chloe gestures dramatically. “No offense, Delilah, but you are way too hot to be living like a celibate nun.”
I laugh, tipping my drink back.
“I just told you I got laid over summer.”
“Yeah, once! And it was terrible! Live a little, girl.”
The thought sticks.
I don’t know why—maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the way Chloe said it like it was the easiest thing in the world—but now the idea is lodged in my brain like a splinter I can’t stop picking at.
A good orgasm. Being touched.Wanted.
Not just out of convenience or proximity or boredom. But because someone sees me—wants me—and knows what the hell they’re doing.
I’m suddenly achingly aware of how long it’s been. Of the fact that I can’t remember the last time someone made me feel good without me overthinking every second of it.
I tap my fingers against my cup, the bass from the party vibrating up my spine. My skin feels too tight. My body wants something. Something real.
Not romance. Just a night where I’m not the one in control. Where I get to shut off my brain and let someone else take over. Make me feel something sharp and messy and alive. Isn’t that what college is all about?
“So what, you think I should just go up to someone and be like, ‘Hey, you down to get down?’” I joke, because joking is safer than confessing that I actually kind of want to.
