Marissa cannot fucking be-lieve that Summer just pushed her away.

That's how the thought appears in her mind, written across the back of her eyelids with the italics and everything. Like some trashy strip club sign gone wrong, flashing, "Cannot. Fucking. Be-lieve," instead of "XXX Live Nude Girls XXX," which is what Marissa would very much prefer right now.

She pushes away a brief fantasy of Summer gyrating on a stage, and concentrates on the situation at hand.

No one's ever pushed Marissa away. Ever. For a second she panics, thinks maybe she misjudged Summer all along; maybe she really does just like to try on Marissa's clothes. Maybe she's not interested at all. Marissa knows how to read people and she's never been wrong about someone before, but there's a first time for everything, right?

Then she realizes, No, Summer's definitely interested. She's still leaning up against the wall, lips parted, eyes closed, looking utterly debauched and sexier than hell; if a little freaked out. Plus, you don't put your tongue in your best friend's mouth and nibble on her lower lip if you're not interested. Even if you do push her away afterwards.

But here's the problem: despite all Marissa's fantasies about Summer – and there are many, catalogued in her mind according to what Summer's wearing – she's utterly lacking in actual experience. And while she can get a hell of a long way on sheer enthusiasm and secretly-downloaded porn, the fantasies and the skin flicks don't give her any idea of what to do now. She figured Summer would go for the aggressive routine, so she planned ahead, memorized a few lines – but now Summer's thrown the entire plan off. It all hinged on Summer giving in immediately to Marissa's advances, thereby rendering any sort of conversation completely impossible. The script in her mind does not cover the possibility of Summer getting scared; what the hell is she going to say now?

Summer's got that look she gets at the mall, when she's trying to decide between a Chanel bag and Prada shoes and ends up buying both. Which, Marissa decides, probably means she's trying to decide whether to kiss her again, or slap her. Marissa hope she doesn't choose both; one thing she's learned while looking for porn is that she is most definitely not into BDSM. Though Summer would look hot in leather.

Yeah, a black leather corset, lots of eyeliner and blood red lipstick… that pleasant thought is cut off by the even more pleasant sensation of Summer's lips pressing against hers.

Apparently she's made a decision.