Disclaimer: I do not own Twisted, unfortunately

Kiss me again, I dare you. I want you to kiss me until I'm light-headed, until I cannot breathe and my body goes limp. I want you to kiss me; touch my sides, lick my neck, capture my sweet spot. I want you to go as far as you want to with me, because I need this. I need you to fucking touch me - make me forget the trials and tribulations of ever being heterosexual and make me love girls for eternity. I need you to run your fingers through my hair, and French kiss me, battle me with your tongue, your teeth grazing against my lips. I want you to straddle me, pin me against my mattress. I need you to take me.

You stare at me, with a look of wonder, trying to figure me out. Do I want this? Is this want I am waiting for? You don't even need to ask me. I already know the question, and you should know the answer.

"I want you, Taylor."

You smirk, and capture my lips again. I moan happily into the kiss, when I feel your smile tugging at the comers of your lips. I reach for your blond hair, removing the elastic and dropping it somewhere. I tousle your soft, cherry-smelling hair, when your kiss gets deeper and messier. I kiss you back, and I sit up from my bed. My hands travel to the small of your back, inches above your ass, and I hear you make a sound of protest.

I almost know what it means. You don't want me to stop.

I test the waters, and move my hands down even further, and you grunt in response. I pull away and flash a grin, my pearly whites against my dark skin, and you do the same, your barely fair skin contrasting to mine.

"Fuck me, Porter," you whisper, and I push you against my bed. I let out a short giggle before kissing you again, for a short time. I move from your sweet pink lips to your outlined jaw to your flushed neck, and you're squealing out noises of delight. It is music to my ears, fortunately. Your skin is so damn soft, I do not want to ruin it with my teeth. I cannot discolor your skin with possession marks, because you are so beautiful. You are so captivating. I can not do that to you.

However, I do it anyway. I bite your skin harshly, almost hard enough to break skin. You hiss, but it is not from pain. You know you like it.

"Fuck," you mutter, and your hands grip my sheets as I keep biting your skin, seeing the marks forming with each bite. Your father may kill me for this. Hell, a lot of people may kill me for this. However, I do not give a fuck. It is only me, and you, and no one else interrupting this.

"You like that baby?" I ask, a slight husk in my tone I never was aware of.

"Yes," you moan out, and I smirk in response before reaching out and taking your shirt off. You raise your hands up and allow me to take your shirt off. What delights me is that you are not wearing a bra underneath. I let out a grunt of amusement and palm your breasts, earning a meal in response. Your eyes beckon me to go further, and even though you are my first (lesbian) time, I have to keep up a pretense that I know what I am doing.

If I know my body, then I probably know yours.

I knead your nipples with my fingers, and you jump, your back slightly arching from the touch, but I know you are beckoning me to go further, to continue this. I do, but I reach over to kiss your right breast, all around the darkened lump. You squirm and whimper and move your head to the side. You are more vulnerable than I have ever seen you. I think I like it. I really like it.

I feel your hips bucking against me as I keep touching your second most sensitive part of your body. I would know because you seem more eager this time around. You were not jumping and squirming when I bite your neck, or when I kiss your delicious lips, or when I run my fingers through your wild, yet tame hair. No. You are practically putty in front of me. I want to make you feel even better than that. However, I do not want to rush things. I still don't know what I am doing.

I sigh, and kneel between your legs. I allow my nails to scratch your sides, ever so slightly. I do it enough to make your skin more white than it usually is, but not to scar you. I stop at the hem of your pants, and I gulp a little before staring at you. Your half lidded eyes and slightly ajar mouth tell me that you want me to. You want me to touch your wetness, make you even more wet than before, to fuck you the best way that I can. Your facial expressions say it all.

I move my left hand down your pants, and I am almost grew helmed by how wet you are. Did I cause all of that? Am I the cause of this? I smirk, and move my fingers against your clit, and a series of moans fly out of your mouth. I grin wider and wider, and my hand moves faster.

"God," you keep moaning. You grip my sheets again, your hips buck in response, and you lull your head from side to side. My confidence grows, and I stop momentarily, moving my fingers down to your entrance, and I only put one finger in. You cringe at the intrusion, but my free hand caresses your inner thigh for support.

You nod your head and I enter another finger, curving my fingers to find the first most sensitive spot. "Say my name," I whisper to you, and you scream it out instead. I chuckle, while you shudder out your climax. My hand gets even more soaken wet with your juices, and I faintly see a wet spot on your underwear.

—

I wake up in a cold sweat, looking around to only see a television playing in the background and a mound of flesh snoring next to me. A pair of fair-skinned arms are wrapped around my midsection, locking me into place. I sigh, and wipe the sweat from my eyebrows and forehead. I'm not entirely surprised that I dreamed about fucking another girl, but a girl I rejected a few hours ago nonetheless...that is when I start to worry.

Of course, it never scared me to think that maybe I am a legitimate lesbian. I thought that maybe, just maybe, if I can feel happiness with someone who isn't a lying criminal then it wouldn't matter to me. However, I did find a sliver of happiness. I found it...with Whitney Taylor. Shit. You can say I'm in deep shit, but I don't think so. I think I'm okay with that.

However, what I said hours ago...I don't know. I just dreamed of fingering another girl, who looks nothing like my ex.

Maybe I'm over him after all, I muse, while my free hand strokes Whitney's sleeping face. I resist the urge to kiss those lips for a third time as my eyes droop me back to a calm sleep.

AN: Confession time. I am a Wacey shipper. Proud to be one. Oops. Before you argue me about it, look, I am not a Dacey shipper, and I'm pretty sure it has always been Jo from the damn beginning. That is one. Two, the few times they kissed were better than the 'makeouts' that I saw from Dacey. Three, all of you anti-Wacey females were wrong, because she actually liked it. *Mordecai and Rigby style grunt*

So, even if you don't ship it, tell me what you think. I am not continuing this so please do not add this to your follows, because you will be waiting an eternity for that update. Lmfao.

I haven't done writing like this because it is a mix of first person and second person but second person will always be one of my favorite styles of writing, no matter how much the creators loathe it ...if I get reported, then hey, it was a nice ride. This will be on ao3 in a few days, so if you have an account there, go and check it out. Same title, same summary, same style.

yours truly, gabbi.