A/N: Gotten a bunch of PMs asking for a new Reamy story since the cancellation. Don't think I have a new story in me, but thought maybe a little plot with a side of smut (or a lot of smut with a side of plot) might work too. My editor couldn't stop blushing after reading so either it's good smut or she just didn't want to tell me I suck at being dirty :) You know the drill. Read and review and enjoy the smutty smut smut.

It's been a week.

Correction: It's been a fucking week. A fucking week that has been filled - from top to bottom and over to the right side and then back to the left and bursting out the seams and overflowing every which way - with everything but fucking. And that's not the good kind of 'everything but', the kind where there's lots of kisses and some PG-13 cuddling and a little (or more than a little) bit of through the clothes grinding and, at the very least, a few 'oh, sorry, I was asleep and didn't know my hand ended up there' moments.

No. It's the everything but everything kind, the kind you usually only get in, you know, extreme circumstances.

Like when your girlfriend has to spend a week away with her family (and even then, there's always Skype, and Reagan remembers Skype, she remembers it fondly.) Or like when you're working doubles for the catering company, pulling two jobs a day and then rocking three DJ gigs in the same week and then helping your dumbass brother move out of his (bigger) dumbass (ex) girlfriend's apartment, the one on the dumbass (sensing a pattern?) fifth floor in a building with no working elevator and then - when all that is done - even though your girlfriend spent most of your catering shifts sending you pictures of her in the tiniest outfits she owns (some of which you're sure were actually Lauren's) and most of your DJ gigs sending you pictures of her out of the tiniest outfits she owns (including several you're sure are from Lauren's room) and even though the spirit is willing (oh so so so willing), the flesh is weak weak weak and falls asleep the second it hits the bed.

Dumbass flesh. Dumbass flesh and dumbass week and yes, Reagan knows that it's only a week (which is real easy to say when you're not the one dating Amy Raudenfeld) and that there is more - like way way way more - to their relationship than just sex (like, you know, caring and a future and feelings but fuck all, as much as she loves all that, she needs some feeling too, if you know what she means.)

You do. You know you do.

Reagan knows that a week without sex is not the end of the world and she knows it's not even the end of them and she knows - surprisingly well - that they've got a long future ahead of them and that future is going to have plenty of dry spells and it's going to have plenty of times when one, or both of them, just aren't in the mood (even if she can't ever imagine being with Amy and not being in the mood) and she's fine with that.

But this? This isn't a dry spell and this isn't 'not in the mood' and this isn't one of them claiming a headache or even life forcing them to spend time apart. This is something else entirely.

This is Karma.

Karma the person, not karma the concept though, Reagan suspects, it might actually be both, it might be her metaphysical chickens coming home to roost as they say. Cause, see, she knows this is really all her own fault, she's the one who started it. She was the one who wanted (and God only knows why) Karma and Amy to fix their shit and she's the one who went out of her way to make it happen.

She tied her girlfriend up and then left her alone with another woman and not in the 'I'm gonna go sit in the corner and watch' kinda way, but in the 'I trust you two alone together and I want you to be friends again and I need my Amy back which is, unfortunately, kinda her Amy too' kinda way. Yeah, Reagan's well fucking aware of her role in all this, but Amy already punished her for it though, in truth, Reagan knows punishment is probably supposed to involve a few less orgasms, but still…

Seven days and seven nights of… Karmy (and yes, she shudders just as much as you think she would every time she even thinks… that)... that's not punishment. That's cruel and unusual, that's just mean, that's…

It's unconstitutional, that's what it is.

Reagan's eyes glass over as she (sort of) watches the television and (more sort of) listens to Karma babbling from the kitchen and she thinks, maybe, she ought to take this to court, to the Supreme Court, cause they already went for gay marriage so this ought to be a slam dunk and she wouldn't even need precedents or case law or anything.

Just let them - those nine (well, eight now) men and women - spend an hour in the 'Karmy' zone and they'd rule in her favor faster than she's going to make Amy cum the next time she gets her alone for five minutes.

If there is a next time.

"You cannot be serious."

Reagan looks up from the TV she's not actually watching. She's completely lost the plot, not that she ever cared to have it, she's not even sure what movie she's not watching. All she knows is it's another in the incredibly long line of 'how in the fuck did this ever even get made, oh… wait… it's because it has Gosling, which is, you know, great, unless you are, you know, a lesbian' rom-com-bombs that Karma has foisted on them all week.

Like all week. Like seven nights at like two movies a night and it's officially reached a point where Reagan can't tell a Gosling from an Efron from a Duhamel. Seven days and seven nights. It's like some Karmy-fied version of Hanukkah, only missing a day (thank God) and none of them are, you know, Jewish.

Though, at this point, Reagan would convert, on the fucking spot, to damn near any religion that would allow her to worship at the Altar of Amy for even thirty (very very very naked) seconds.

"You cannot be serious," Karma repeats. Reagan's learned enough 'Karmaese' in the last week to read into the emphasis, to translate cannot and serious to 'no one said anything the first time I said it and you two are alone in there - without me - and dammit, I can't allow that.'

Maybe the specifics are a little off, but the feeling, the spirit, is exactly right.

Reagan glances over her shoulder and over the back of her couch and she sees Karma standing there, in her tiny kitchen, bent over and staring into her fridge and - from that angle and in those jeans - Karma's ass….

Fuck. Just… fuck.

She's staring at Karma's ass. Karma's. Ass. If Reagan wasn't sure before that it was time for Amy's bestie to go, she's beyond sure now. It's so past time for her to go, no matter how good her ass looks (and it does, it really does) (and add having to think about that to the list of things Reagan's going to make Amy pay for once they're alone.)

Slowly. She's going to make her pay slowly and repeatedly and as loudly as possible.

"What's wrong?" Amy asks and she's asking Karma but oh, Reagan could answer that, she could answer the fuck out of that.

What's wrong? Reagan's got a list.

Amy's sitting next to Reagan on the couch - the same spot she's been in all evening, at least since this latest who give a fuck cinematic masterpiece started. Except that 'next to', really, isn't all that apt a description. Amy's been spread out for most of the evening, her legs in Karma's lap at one end of the couch, her head in Reagan's lap at the other. But now, with Karma in the kitchen, they're basically alone - or as close as they've come in the last seven days - and Reagan's not above taking advantage of the situation, so she lets one hand slowly creep under the collar of Amy's tee shirt and prays Karma stays in the kitchen just a little longer.

(Though, honestly, even if she didn't…)

"You girlfriend has no real butter," Karma says, hunched over and rooting through the fridge, unaware that Reagan's eyes are still locked on her ass (it's been seven days) or that Reagan's hand is slipping even further under Amy's shirt.

Or that Amy's doing nothing to stop it. And, in this case, 'nothing' totally means leaning back a little further and scooting just a little closer and moving the parts Reagan's going for a little more… in range.

"How," Karma mutters, "can we have popcorn with no butter?"

Reagan rolls her eyes (finally tearing them away from that ass to do it.) "There's margaine in there," she says, even though she's really got no fucking idea if there is or not, but that should keep Karma occupied - at least for a minute - which is good, very good, especially for the fingers that just slipped under the top edge of Amy's bra.

"Margarine?" Karma snorts. "Really?"

"I don't know," Reagan mutters. She has to consciously commit to not letting her voice shudder through the words as her hand works its way fully under Amy's bra (with a bit of help from Amy, with 'a bit' being a full on pulling down of saud bra until she's basically not wearing it.) "I think there's some… um… vegan butter… substitute shit that… my… um…" She loses her train of thought for a moment, too engrossed in the feel of Amy, cupped in her hand. "My cousin," she finally stammers out. "My cousin left it last time she was here."

Reagan runs her thumb across Amy's flesh, circling her nipple with just the lightest of touches and watches as her girlfriend's eyes squeeze shut and a definite flush reddens her cheeks.

So, at least a week hasn't made her lose her touch.

"Vegan butter tastes like ass," Karma says. "And no, before you ask, I don't really know what ass tastes like but if I did, I imagine it would be pretty close to vegan butter."

Reagan has to admit, she probably has a point.

"Well, in that case," Reagan says, running that same thumb back over that same nipple, feeling it harden beneath her touch. "I guess I've got no butter. Maybe," she says, "you should run out and get some?"

And not just so Reagan can get some.

Amy clutches at Reagan's thigh as her back arches and her hair spills out over Reagan's lap and the older girl watches as Amy bites down on her lip to stifle a moan.

OK. Yeah. Scratch that. Totally just so Reagan can get some.

She pinches Amy's nipple between her thumb and finger, forcing the blonde to roll to her side, burying her face (and another moan) in Reagan's shirt. "We could pause the movie for you," she says to Karma, tangling her free hand in Amy's hair. "Then we could just pick up right where we left off when you get back."

"I could," Karma says, shuffling things around on the top shelf of the fridge (and Reagan's so glad she just went grocery shopping and that fridge is full) (except, apparently, for butter.) "But you were my ride, remember? So unless you want me taking your truck…"

Amy rolls back over, her eyes popping open as Reagan's hand freezes in place.

Not the truck. Anything but the truck.

"Guess we'll just have to have bare popcorn then," Reagan says. She starts to move her hand again, tracing one finger lightly along the bottom of Amy's breast until Amy covers her hand with her own and she stares up at Reagan, with those eyes and that smile and Reagan knows those eyes and she's all too fucking familiar with that smile.

And you have to be kidding…

Reagan sighs and pulls her hand free from Amy's shirt. She's whipped and she knows it, she's known it since 'there are… no… boyfriends' even if she didn't even know Amy then and there's just no point in fighting it.

"Or," she says, standing up and as Amy props herself up, resting her weight on her elbows. "I could just run down to the store on the corner and get some."

Karma could run to the corner store except Reagan's neighborhood is a little… scary… and, despite Reagan's thoughts on the matter, Karma's just… not.

The redhead hops over the back of the couch - her long, brave butter hunt finally at an end - landing in Reagan's just vacated spot and Amy flops back down, her head landing in her best friend's lap.

"Hey," Amy says, smiling up at her (but not with that smile.)

"Hey yourself," Karma says, smiling right back.

"Oh, fuck me," Reagan mutters and, for the first time in a week, it's not an actual request or prayer to the Gods. "Anything else I should get while I'm there?" she asks as she snatches up her keys from the coffee table. "Rat poison? A blindfold? Ear plugs?"

Those last two are totally meant for Karma.

"Licorice," Karma says, totally missing the joke - intentionally or not, Reagan's not sure - as she keeps right on grinning down at Amy. "Red vines," she says. "Those are Amy's favorite."

Amy breaks the sickly sweet eye contact and glances over at Reagan, her eyes pleading.

Don't tell her, they say. Don't let on that you know that I fucking hate red vines, like with an I hate Liam Booker level passion, they plead. Don't tell her that I've spent a lifetime claiming to love them because they're her favorite, they beg.

Reagan just stares for a moment. In a regular moment, in a them moment, she could be memorizing the curves of Amy's face, marveling at the way her hair frames her eyes and makes her look all the more like the seductively sweet goddess she is. Reagan could be staring at her with all the love and adoration she feels in her heart every time she even hears Amy's voice.

This ain't a regular moment and oh, look, Karma's brushing out Amy's hair and yup, this ain't a them moment either. Reagan rolls her eyes and shakes her head and she knows Amy is as fluent in Reagan as Regan is in Karma so she knows Amy totally picks up on the 'you so owe me' and 'I'm gonna get you for this later' and 'yes, I still love you even though you're making me get her butter' dancing through that look.

Ah, the things we do for love and it must be love cause Lord knows it ain't the sex.

Not lately, at least.

Reagan wonders, not for the first time, how many of the things Karma thinks she knows she actually doesn't. How many of the things that make Amy, Amy, at least to Karma, are utter bullshit, are just… red vines.

Probably a few, Reagan thinks. Probably just as many as there are things about Karma that are just as much bullshit. That's their friendship and that seems to work for them, but Reagan's glad it isn't theirs, hers and Amy's. She's glad that the things she knows are all real.

And Reagan knows a lot.

Like she knows Amy hates Red Vines. And she knows that Amy likes a cup of coffee in the morning but it has to be warm, not hot, and it's a very delicate balance, that ratio between the cream and the sugar and it has to be real sugar, not some pretty colored packet shit. Reagan knows Amy could live off doughnuts alone (but really, who doesn't know that?) and that she likes them all but she likes the ones with sprinkles the best. She knows that Amy chews on her pencil eraser when she's trying to do math, but she chews on her fingernails when she doesn't understand it.

Reagan knows exactly where to kiss Amy to make her knees buckle and she could draw you a perfect picture of what Amy looks like, fresh out of the shower, every spot where the water drips and rolls off her body. She could describe the look on Amy's face when she finally lets go, when all her carefully constructed walls and defenses and 'I don't really like people and I really do like living in my bubble' attitude breaks and she's the most free. And she knows how Amy tastes, whether it's on her fingers or on her tongue or even that one time on the strap…

No. Just… no.

Reagan closes her eyes and does everything she can to will the images away. She tries thinking of baseball and basketball and boy's balls, anything to drive that particular 'know' right out of her mind, before she finds herself tumbling headlong down the hill, rolling past 'horny' and 'pent up' and 'frustrated' right on into 'in the mood' and 'in the mood now' and she tackles Amy to the floor and does things to her that Karma should never see.

"Butter and red vines," Karma says, the very sound of her voice shuffling Reagan back toward reality. "Oh and maybe some soda. Something with lots of caffeine? We've still got two more movies tonight."

Reagan's eyes open and Karma is looking at her with a big smile and cheery cheeks and her hand resting on top of Amy's and yup… mood officially killed.

Slayed. Murdered. Fucking assassinated.

"Got it," Reagan says. "Butter and caffeine and," she glares at Amy who refuses to meet her eyes, "Red Vines." She turns back to Karma. "Anything else?"

Karma thinks a moment before shaking her head. "Nah," she says. "I think that should just about cover it." Her face is all innocence and joy and it's so clear that she's got less than no clue about what she's doing and Reagan doesn't know if that makes it better or worse. "You want us to pause the movie?"

Reagan glances at the screen where Gosfronmel has taken his shirt off (again) and she shoots Amy a look.

Save me. Save me before I'm forced to kill her and we have to go on the run to Honduras or Guatemala or Brazil or the North Fucking Pole.

"Reagan's seen this one before," Amy says. "I'm sure she's fine if we just keep watching."

"Cool," Karma says, utterly satisfied (at least someone is) and she turns back to the screen as Reagan heads for the door, muttering about 'Red fucking Vines' under her breath.

She makes it all the way into the hall before she feels a hand on her arm. "What?" she asks as she turns. "Did you forget M&Ms or maybe you want some chocolate milk or… oooh… I know, how about graham crackers and marshmallows and we can make smo -"

Her words are cut off - swallowed - in the best way possible, by Amy's lips on hers and by Amy's hands on her hips, pushing her across the tiny hall until Reagan's back is pressed up against the far wall and she lets out a tiny whimper as Amy breaks the kiss and God, when did she turn into that girl?

Oh. Right. There are… no… boyfriends…

Amy leans her forehead against Reagan's, one hand sliding upward and just under the hem of her shirt, fingers dancing lightly along Reagan's side. "Thank you," she whispers softly, her breath warm against her girlfriend's lips.

Reagan clamps her eyes shut. She can't look at Amy, not while she's all touchy and breathy and kissy and so… close. If she looks, she won't have a choice, it will be totally beyond her control and she'll have to spin them around and press Amy against the wall and do things to her that one just does not do.

Not in the hall.

"Thank you?" Reagan asks, amping the snark in the faint (and getting fainter by the second as Amy keeps touching) hope that she won't crack. "For what? Butter? Red Vines?"

Amy kisses her again, a smile spreading across her lips as she does. "No, not for the butter or the licorice" she says, sliding her arms around Reagan's waist, one hand slipping into the back pocket of the older girl's jeans, the other still trailing along under her shirt, Amy's fingers teasing the small of Reagan's back. "Thank you for putting up with her."

Reagan risks it and pops one eye open, staring Amy down. "Her?" she asks. "Just her?"

Amy laughs and kisses her again, slower this time, her tongue slipping into Reagan's mouth, but then dancing away when Reagan's comes out to duel. "OK," Amy murmurs against her girlfriend's lips. "Thank you for putting up with her and with me and with… us."

She pulls back, just a little, her hands still holding Reagan close, but Amy wants Reagan to see it - the look in her eyes when she says 'us' - just to make sure.

'Us' is not us.

Add that to the list of things Reagan knows.

"It's OK," Reagan says, hooking her thumbs in the belt loops of Amy's jeans and tugging her closer again. "It's fine, it's nothing, it's no big…" She trails off as she sees the look on Amy's face, the 'who are you kidding?' fluttering in her eyes. "OK," she says, "even I can't sell that."

Amy laughs and Reagan has to wonder how a sound - a fucking sound - can warm her heart and her… you know… at the same time.

"It is a big deal," Amy says, leaning close again, resting her head on Reagan's shoulder, her breath tickling the sensitive skin of her girlfriend's neck. "I know it's hard," she says as she presses a soft kiss along that skin. "And I know Karma drives you nuts." Another kiss, a little longer, Amy's lips catching Reagan's flesh and sucking so very lightly. "And I know we seem a little… weird… and kinda codependent." Amy's teeth nip at that same spot and her tongue slips out to soothe, as the hand in Reagan's pocket squeezes gently.

"You think?" Reagan stammers out. She's incredibly proud she didn't moan, though when Amy's other hand slips down, sliding just under the waistband of her jeans, Reagan's pretty sure that whole not moaning thing isn't going to last.

And neither is she.

"I know how we are," Amy says and fuck says, it's a whisper and Reagan only hears it because Amy's moved, tilting her head so she's breathing her words right into her girlfriend's ear. "And I know how annoying that can be."

It's somewhat less annoying, Reagan has to admit, when those fingers - still dipping just below her waist - slowly slide around her body, never once breaking contact until they reach her front and then only long enough to pop the button on her jeans before sliding right back in.

"Amy…"

She means it as a warning, as in 'we're in the hall and my door is still open and Karma's right inside and Mrs. Basham is probably home and I'm like four inches from her door and you should probably stop now.'

If it comes across as more of a plea, as more of a 'don't stop now', well…

It's been seven days.

"It's just the first time Karma and I have been sort of… normal… since all this started," Amy says, paying absolutely no attention to Reagan's warning / plea but paying a lot of attention to her zipper, the one she's slowly working down. "No secrets," Amy says, tugging the zipper halfway. "No lies," she whispers, finishing the job (though Reagan suspects she's anything but finished.) "It's just her and me again and that's nice and I've really needed that."

Amy's hand creeps back up to the top of Reagan's jeans, pressing flat against her girlfriend's stomach. She turns slightly, moving a bit to Reagan's side and, even as Reagan is realizing why - it's all about the angles - Amy's hand slides straight down, skimming across the surface of her girlfriend's underwear and slipping between her legs.

"And speaking of things I've really needed…" Amy breathes, pressing her fingers against Reagan's mound through her panties, just enough pressure to make the older girl hiss out a low 'fuck' through gritted teeth.

Reagan manages to keep her balance - though Amy might be holding her up, she can't really be sure cause she can't really think - and she grabs, blindly, for Amy's hand, capturing her wrist, the one halfway down her pants.

"Shrimps…" she says (and fuck it, it is a moan and she doesn't care.) "We… can't…" Reagan loses the power of speech for a moment as Amy presses just a little harder, one finger brushing lightly over her clit and fuck all they can't.

"We're not," Amy says. She doesn't go any further, doesn't try to slip her wrist from Reagan's grasp. "You are."

She dips her head again and runs her tongue along Reagan's skin, along that spot right behind her ear.

Reagan knows Amy. But Amy knows her too.

"If you want me to stop," Amy says as she lets that one finger twitch, just a little. "I will. Or…"

Oh fuck. There's an or.

"Or?" Reagan asks, like she needs the options explained so she can make the most informed choice.

Like there's any fucking chance she's not picking 'or'.

Amy smiles against her skin and Reagan knows she's in for it now. "Or," Amy says, "that hand you're holding on to? You can move it." She slips her other hand out of Reagan's pocket and then right back down again, into her jeans and under the panties, taking a firm grasp of her girlfriend's ass.

"Move?" Reagan gasps. She's got her eyes open now, locked on her apartment door, keeping watch for Karma and - she swears - if she comes out now…

"Yes," Amy whispers. She flexes her hand gently, earning another low moan from Reagan in the process. "Move it," she says. "Where you want it. Where you need it. Guide me, Reagan, make me make you cum."

Well… when she puts it that way…

It takes all of about ten seconds for Reagan to run it all through her mind and most of those seconds are taken up completely with thoughts of how hot it is to hear Amy - Amy - say that sort of thing. In the hall, no less. In the hall with her hands down Reagan's pants and her best friend like forty feet away and Mrs. Basham probably listening behind her door.

And that shouldn't make it even hotter. It shouldn't…

LIke there was ever even a thought that she wouldn't, Reagan holds tight to Amy's wrist and does exactly what her girlfriend asked for. She steers her, guiding Amy's hand down further between her legs until the blonde gets the hint and cups Reagan in her hand.

"Is that what you want?" she whispers and Reagan nods. "Is that all you want?"

Reagan groans and leans her head back against the wall. "No," she whispers. "That's not all."

Amy's hand pushes against Reagan's ass, shoving the older girl gently forward, pressing her hard against that cupping hand. "Then tell me," she says. "Tell me what you want."

Reagan turns, bringing her other hand up onto the back of Amy's neck and pulls her to her, crashing their lips together as she slowly uses her grip on Amy's wrist to move her hand up and then down and then up again and the back down, further than before, rubbing the fabric of her underwear against her, soaking the cotton faster than she thought possible.

"What I want," Reagan says, breaking the kiss, "is for you to fuck…"

She trails off into a low throaty moan as Amy takes the initiative, pulling Reagan's panties aside and slipping one finger just inside her. It's just a tease, just a dip in the pool as it were, but it's enough to make Reagan lose her breath.

"Sorry," Amy says. "I got a little impatient waiting for you to tell me." She slips her finger back out, running it gently across the underwear, guiding fabric and finger through Reagan's folds as the older girl bucks her hips, trying to urge her back.

"Fuck, Amy," she says. "What's gotten into you?"

"You," Amy says. "Or you will, later, when I call Liam or Shane or a fucking Uber and have them take Karma home." She squeezes Reagan's ass again. "You'll get into me. Just like this," she says, letting that one finger slide back inside. Reagan's so wet, Amy goes for two. "And like this," she says as the second finger dips in. "And like this…" A third finger sends Reagan arching against the wall and Amy just holds them there, not moving at all.

Reagan grips Amy's wrist, steering and pushing and trying to get her to move, but Amy holds her ground, wanting to savor the moment.

"You know," Amy says, "it hasn't just been you. It's been seven days for me too." She slips her fingers just a little deeper, smiling as Reagan's eyes slam shut and her teeth clamp down on her bottom lip. "Seven days without this," Amy whispers. "Without the feel of you." She shifts again, going just a little deeper. "Seven days without feeling you soaking my fingers, without getting to hear you moan as I fuck you."

Reagan's hips buck again as Amy curls her fingers, catching her in just the right spot and she moans again, not caring who hears or sees or knows. She doesn't care about anything except hoping - praying - for Amy to never stop fucking her.

"Seven long days," Amy says. She slowly pulls her fingers away and Reagan allows her to steer as she slips her hand up and out of Reagan's jeans, up and across her stomach and over her chest and oh… oh fuck.. "Seven days," Amy whispers, "without the taste of you."

Amy tips her neck, bringing her fingers to her lips and slowly - so fucking slowly - she swipes her tongue across each one, lapping up the taste before gently sliding each, one at a time, between her lips and sucking them clean.

She watches Reagan watch her, every movement slow and deliberate and Amy makes a little show, making a point of letting each finger pop from her mouth even if she doesn't want to, even if she wants to keep right on sucking them all clean until she's gotten every last drop.

Amy lowers her hand again, sliding it back between Reagan's legs, underneath her panties this time, lingering - for just a moment - on her girlfriend's clit.

"We don't have much time," Amy says. "You need to get to the store and Karma's going to be wondering where I am." There's a look that washes over Reagan's face, one her girlfriend recognizes and one that brings a delicious smirk to Amy's. "You like that, don't you?" she asks, already knowing the answer. "You like knowing Karma's right over there, just beyond that open door."

Reagan tries to shake her head 'no', but Amy brushes her thumb over her clit and it's like the hottest truth serum ever and she caves in, nodding. Amy's fingers dance delicately across her clit and then down, teasing at her entrance and even though the other girl doesn't say a word, Amy can see it in her eyes.

"She's right in there," Amy says. "She can probably hear us… hear you." Amy slips a finger inside her and Reagan can't hold back the moan and yeah, Karma probably heard that. The people two floors down probably heard that. "You're so fucking wet right now," Amy whispers, swirling her finger inside Reagan to prove her point. "Right now, right here, right out in the hall where anyone could see."

Reagan can feel herself clenching around Amy's finger as her first - but not her last - orgasm rolls through her. Her fingers dig into Amy's wrist and she hears her girlfriend let out a moan of her own.

"Yes," Amy whispers. "That's what I want. I want you to cum," she says. "I want you to cum so fucking hard cum all over my fingers." She brushes her thumb across Reagan's clit and they both know that's not going to be a problem. "I want you to soak my fucking hand," Amy says. She turns her hand, her thumb still working Reagan's clit as her fingers dip down below. "And then, when you're done, I want you to watch me," she says. "I want you to watch me as I suck every bit of you from my fingers, as I lick up every drop of your cum."

Reagan moans again as those three fingers find their way back inside.

"You're going to watch me," Amy says. She slowly speeds up her fingers, not teasing and dipping anymore. "You're going to watch me clean you off me," she says, sliding her fingers in and out, faster now. Reagan's hips buck against the motion, matching Amy's strokes as she fucks her. "Or..."

Oh fuck. There's another or.

"Or?" Reagan gasps as Amy pumps in and she presses her hips down, forcing the blonde's fingers even deeper.

Her eyes grow wide as Amy steps back slightly, tossing one quick look over her shoulder towards the apartment door before bringing her other hand free and quickly - faster than Reagan's ever seen her move - undoing the button on her own jeans and yanking the zipper down.

"I still want you to watch me," Amy says. "Just maybe not cleaning you off…"

Regan's hips buck again as she figures out what Amy's saying, her free hand slapping against the wall as she wills herself not to scream.

"You like that too, don't you?" Amy smiles as she slams her fingers into Reagan, her other hand already working it's way inside her own jeans, brushing against her clit as she works to bring them off together. "You want to see that?" she asks. "You want to see me shove my fingers, still covered in you, inside me?"

Reagan's hand squeezes Amy's wrist as her legs buckle beneath her, her thighs shaking as she feels another orgasm rolling through her. Her eyes fall to Amy's hand, moving frantically inside her jeans as she fucks them both. She grabs Amy by the neck, pulling her into a kiss as she moans into her mouth, practically screaming as she cums, and she feels Amy's gasp, holds her close as she rides out her own, leaving them both breathless and flushed, the blonde's hands still between both their legs.

"AMY!" Karma's voice yells out from inside the apartment (how far inside neither of them can really tell.) "You're missing the best part."

Reagan wraps an arm around Amy and pulls her close as they both fumble with their jeans and their buttons and their zippers, both so spent it takes them like three tries to get it right.

"You should get going," Amy whispers. "Gotta get that butter."

Reagan nods. "Yeah. And the soda," she says, smiling down at Amy. "Gonna need that caffeine," she says. "I got a feeling it's gonna be a long night."

Amy smiles and blushes like she didn't just fuck them both in the hall and she turns to go, to head back into the apartment, but then she pauses, turning back to Reagan as she brings her fingers to her lips, tongue darting out for one last taste.

"Skip the Red Vines," she says. "And no snacks." She smiles as she sucks one finger gently between her lips, thoroughly enjoying the way Reagan's pupils dilate and her breath comes shuddering out at the sight. "I'm gonna want to have an appetite later, when there's a lot tastier things to eat."