Chapter 1: The Graduation Night That Changed Everything

The loft on the top floor of the converted warehouse in the River Market district smelled like spilled tequila, crushed limes, the sweet-char haze of weed smoke drifting from a corner joint, and the warm, unmistakable musk of too many bodies pressed close on a humid June night. Exposed brick walls absorbed the low red and purple LED strips strung along the ceiling beams; iron girders overhead caught flashes from the strobe synced to the bass-heavy playlist—deep, throbbing tracks that made hips sway involuntarily. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Kansas City skyline: the Power & Light Building glowing crimson, I-70 headlights threading like slow rivers of molten gold, the Missouri River a dark satin ribbon reflecting distant lightning that never quite arrived.

Mia stepped through the door at 9:17 p.m., diploma still rolled in her purse like an afterthought. The emerald dress—thin silk jersey bought on impulse two days earlier—clung to every curve: short enough that the hem rode high on her thighs with each step, sheer enough that the AC raised gooseflesh across her bare breasts and turned her nipples into dark, insistent points beneath the fabric. No bra, no panties; the decision had felt reckless and right in the Uber, her fingers already restless between her legs as city lights streaked past the tinted windows.

Sophie found her first.

Her younger sister moved through the crowd like mercury—platinum crop tousled from dancing, black lace crop top riding up to expose the silver navel barbell, tiny denim skirt barely skimming the tops of her thighs. She didn’t speak. Just hooked two fingers into the deep V of Mia’s neckline, tugged her sideways behind the long kitchen island, and pressed her back against the cool granite slab.

The island dominated the center of the loft like a sacrificial altar—long slab of black-veined granite, cool to the touch even in the humid press of bodies, edges rounded from years of elbows and spilled drinks. Overhead, pendant lights cast warm amber pools that caught the haze of joint smoke drifting upward. The bass from the speakers throbbed through the floor, syncing with Mia’s quickening pulse.

The granite pressed cold against the small of Mia’s back through the thin emerald silk. Sophie’s body crowded close—hips slotting against hers, one thigh sliding between Mia’s legs to nudge them apart. The skirt Sophie wore was so short that the denim rode up when she moved; Mia felt the heat of her sister’s bare skin against her own inner thigh.

Sophie’s mouth found the sensitive spot just below Mia’s ear—lips brushing, then teeth grazing, then a slow suck that pulled blood to the surface in a faint purple bloom. Her breath was hot, tasting of lime and the faint char of weed. “You’re already dripping down your thighs,” she whispered, voice barely carrying over the music. “I can smell it.”

One hand slid up the inside of Mia’s leg—fingertips trailing Fire along bare skin—until they reached the slick heat between her folds. No hesitation: middle and ring fingers plunged inside in one smooth motion, curling upward to hook against that spongy front wall spot that always made Mia’s vision tunnel. Sophie’s thumb settled on her clit—small, firm circles that matched the bassline perfectly.

Mia’s head tipped back; a soft gasp escaped before she could bite it down. Her palms braced harder on the granite behind her—fingers splaying, nails scraping faintly against stone. The dress rode higher with each subtle rock of her hips; cool air kissed the wet skin exposed to the room.

A shadow lengthened across the granite. Miles—the bearded seminar guy, broad-shouldered, flannel sleeves rolled to show corded forearms—stopped short with an ice bucket dangling forgotten from his right hand. His eyes tracked the slow disappearance of Sophie’s wrist under emerald fabric, then lifted to Mia’s face: cheeks flushed deep rose, mouth slack and glistening, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the iris.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His free hand adjusted the thickening bulge in his jeans—slow, deliberate—while he watched Sophie’s fingers disappear and reappear in rhythmic thrusts.

Sophie noticed the audience. Her smile turned sharp, predatory. She sped up—fingers plunging deeper, curling harder, thumb pressing firm circles that made Mia’s thighs quiver uncontrollably. A low, broken whimper slipped past Mia’s lips; Sophie clamped her free hand over Mia’s mouth just in time. The orgasm crashed through like a breaker—sharp, electric, hips jerking so violently the bottles lined up behind them rattled. Mia’s eyes locked on Miles through the haze; she watched his jaw tighten, watched his hand squeeze himself through denim as if to keep control.

Sophie withdrew her fingers—coated, shining—and extended them toward Miles without breaking eye contact with her sister. He stepped forward, boots scuffing tile, and took them into his mouth. Tongue swirled around each digit, sucking clean with a low, appreciative groan that vibrated through the air. The sound made Mia clench around nothing.