North Park

“I have a scar,” Janet said. Her voice sounded thin. “From the C-section. It’s… ugly. It has a shelf.”

She hadn’t shown anyone in four years. Not even Mark, toward the end.

Eve looked down. She didn’t offer a speech about beauty. She didn’t say it didn’t matter.

“Can I see?” Eve asked.

Janet nodded.

Eve unbuttoned the jeans. She pulled the zipper down, the sound loud and metallic. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and slid the denim down, along with Janet’s panties.

The cool air hit Janet’s skin. She wanted to cover herself with her hands.

Eve looked. She traced the line of the scar with her thumb. The skin there was numb, nerves severed years ago, but Janet felt the pressure.

“It’s not ugly,” Eve said. She wasn’t looking at Janet’s face. She was looking at the scar. “It’s just skin. It’s how Connor got here.”

She leaned down and pressed her mouth to the scar.

Janet flinched. The sensation was strange—wet heat on numb skin, sending phantom signals to the surrounding nerves. But then Eve moved lower, her breath hot on Janet’s inner thigh, and the strangeness vanished, replaced by a sharp, electric jolt of desire.

Janet arched her back. “Eve.”

Eve looked up. Her mouth was wet. “Yeah?”

“Please.”

Eve moved. She shed her own clothes in a flurry of movement—joggers kicked off, shirt pulled over her head. Skin against skin. Heat against heat.