There was something about being with a woman.
Maybe it was the shape of Charity's body; musical note curves and breasts that rise and fall rhythmically with each staccato moan, a song that would be stuck in her head for days.
Maybe it was the way she perched herself at the end of the bed in nothing but skin-colour tights already pulled down to pool at her ankles where she ungraciously kicked them off until they went flying across the room. The snort and look of amusement on her face quickly turning into lust when her attention was directed to the now visible and more accessible panties. Her gaze raking upwards to also take in the strapless black bra she was wearing, Charity's arms folded over her chest and a smile on her face somehow more inviting than the legs that began to part.
Maybe it was that no matter how much alcohol they had consumed, Charity never seemed to smell of gin or vodka sours, nor did she ever complain about Vanessa's breath when she had consumed just as much alcohol as she had, downing shot after shot. And when the midnight chills snuck indoors on the tails of shadows, her arms looped around Vanessa's torso and she lured her back to bed with the promise of warmth from satin skin and sheets.
Maybe it was the way she clutched at Charity, her nails raking down her spine, her hips twisting, as fingers eased her open and slipped inside― the way she writhed and convulsed against them, the orchestra of her name that echoed around the room as she rode out her orgasm and the way she kissed Charity as though she wouldn't live through the night if she didn't.
Maybe it was just Charity.
Yes, Vanessa decided.
There was definitely something about being with Charity.