Saturday night.

The air was thick with it. Warm amber, black pepper—her own private scent, the one for nobody—now hopelessly tangled with the cloying, electric smell of sex. Her betrayal.

FUCK ME.

The words still vibrated in the air, a command that had detonated the last three years of fragile, bullshit peace. Was it rage? A plea? Aviv couldn't parse it, and it didn't fucking matter. She hadn't hesitated for a fraction of a second.

Now her favorite hoodie, her armor, was a crumpled heap on the floor. Defenses gone. Her head was a Tilt-a-Whirl, flashing through the last two and a half years of ugly, silent history.

It all went back to that goddamn Chinese place.

Six months. Six months of a pathetic, hopeless crush, the regular. Aviv had been a coward, her confidence a ghost, so she'd just talked. And talked. To Chloe. About the way she smelled, the color of her eyes, every stupid, obsessive detail.

Chloe, ever the opportunist, had listened, and then she'd acted. Suddenly, she was Chloe's.

The spiral after that was fast and ugly. A blur of wrong bodies in her bed, desperate attempts to find a replacement that only left her feeling hollow.

And all the while, Chloe would run to her after every fight, her voice dripping with that fake, syrupy sympathy. "She's just so clingy!" She'd whine, twisting the knife Aviv had handed her. "And honestly? Like a dead fish in bed," she'd whisper, the ultimate fucking hypocrisy from a selfish bitch who only ever cared about getting herself off.

Aviv had wanted to knock her teeth down her throat. Instead, she'd just bitten her tongue until it bled. A silent partner in her own misery. A loyal fucking traitor.

The second command sliced through the memory, her voice a mantra in her skull.

I want you to use my phone. Record it. Close-up, when you eat me out.

She needs me. She chose me. I can't fail her again.

The thought hit her like a defibrillator, a jolt of pure, terrifying purpose that burned the guilt right out of her veins. This wasn't a betrayal. This was a reclamation.

Her hand, trembling slightly, closed around the cold glass of the phone. Camera. Video. The little red dot blinked to life, a single, unblinking eye in the dark.

Aviv leaned over her body. Her fingers stroked the soft cotton of her panties, pushing the fabric aside, revealing her. Wet, swollen, waiting.

She inhaled, breathing in the real scent, the one she'd only ever imagined.

"Fuck... You smell so good."

Her tongue traced a slow, reverent line up her slit. Then another, from the bottom all the way to the top. The sound it made—a soft, intimate slurp—was deafening in the quiet.

She kept the phone steady, the red light a fixed point in the chaos.

"Like this?" she rasped, her voice a low growl against her skin. "Filming for you... so you can send it to that bitch?"

She didn't wait for a reply, just lapped harder, deeper, hungrier, like she'd been starving her whole life for this taste.