Irresistible Outfit

Sarah placed the first order because Arabelle needed work. Simple. Helpful. Friendly. Then Arabelle showed up at the door in skin-tight black spandex that hugged every curve like it was painted on, and Sarah forgot how breathing worked. Three deliveries later she was making things up—old paperbacks she didn't need, takeout she hadn't ordered, coffee with four pumps of syrup she'd never drink. Each time the knock came, Sarah’s pulse kicked up. Arabelle grinned, sweat-glistened, ponytail damp, saying “You again?” while Sarah made shaky excuses and paid in cash so Arabelle’s hands would brush hers. On the fifth call Arabelle leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes narrowed but amused. “Sarah, you live ten blocks from the office and you’ve run me ragged for a latte. What’s going on?” Heat climbed Sarah’s cheeks. She mumbled something about wanting to support new careers, but Arabelle lifted an eyebrow until the truth tumbled out: Sarah couldn’t stop thinking about her in that outfit, about the thighs, the slick material stretching when Arabelle pedaled, the faint scent of clean sweat that clung to her now. For a beat Arabelle just blinked. Then a slow smile curved her mouth. “Well, shit.” She stepped inside, closed the door with her heel, and cupped Sarah’s face with both hands. The kiss started gentle—testing—then caught fire when Sarah opened for her. Arabelle’s tongue slid hot and slow; she tasted like mint gum and adrenaline. She peeled the cycling jersey upward, fabric whispering over damp skin, revealing toned abs and a black sports bra already shoved high from the motion. The zipper on her shorts came next, teeth parting with a metallic tick-tick, and she shimmied the shorts down, hips swaying so the spandex glided like liquid over the generous swell of her ass. Underneath, a tiny pair of black panties clung to the cleft between her cheeks. Arabelle kicked free of the shorts and stood there flushed, nipples poking against the bra, the scent of bike-ride sweat mixing with sweet body lotion. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the panties, pausing to smirk. “Still want to be supportive?” Then she dragged them down, the thin cotton stretching between her thighs before falling. She stepped out of them, bare now except for the bra and cycling gloves she hadn't bothered to remove, and pulled Sarah flush against her, mouths meeting again—deeper, wetter, hungrier.