After they finished their food and drinks, Carys seemed almost back to her usual self.

“I’m good,” she said, almost like she was announcing it to herself. “Let’s go party.”

Chapter 22

Greta

When Greta opened the door to Eleventh House two hours later, dressed for the party, it had been entirely transformed.

Three times the amount of paper chains now adorned the living room, the number (and colors) of stars suggested rifling through neighbors’ recycling, and delicious smells spilled from the long table that had been pushed against the far side of the wall, where the stereo usually was.

Helen and Veronica lay sprawled on the couch, intertwined, snoring loudly.

Carys poked her head out of the kitchen, made a “quiet” motion, and waved Greta inside.

Carys wore a crepey silver-and-gold sleeveless dress that fell to the floor; a silver belt that looked like a snake wrapped around itself accentuated the beautiful curves of her breasts and her ass. Her hair was a cloud of curls, and she wore a 1920s-style silver sequined headband around her head. Her lips were bright red and her whiskey eyes were accentuated with a gold metallic shadow that made them mesmerizing.

“Holy shit, you look amazing,” Greta said worshipfully.

“Thanks, baby. You look wonderful too. Damn!”

Greta hadn’t packed any party-appropriate clothes, but she’d found a fitted tuxedo jacket at a thrift store the other day and wore that buttoned over black jeans and a bra. She’d smudged some black eyeliner around her blue eyes and tousled her hair into a bleach blond mess. She liked the look—half butch, half glam—but it was much more effort than she usually put into her appearance, and she blushed at Carys’ clear appreciation.

“Um. Should we wake them?”

Carys snorted. “They were asleep when I got home. I bet they stayed up all night cooking and decorating. When they both get manic at the same time…hoo!” She shook her head. “They get a lot done, though.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t look like there’s much to set up before people get here.”

Carys nodded.

“Sooo, maybe I could just…” Greta ran a fingertip between Carys’ breasts and raised an eyebrow.

Carys’ smile was pure heat, and she turned and led Greta to her bedroom.

“Here’s the thing, though,” she said. “I just did my makeup and everything, so I’m afraid there’s really only one place you can touch me…”

A throb of heat went through Greta, and she groaned and dropped to her knees. “Not a problem.”

She pushed Carys gently back on the bed and buried her face between her legs. She was warm and sweet and so damn delicious that Greta never wanted to come up for air. She teased at first, then, when Carys was clutching at the duvet, she brought her to a quaking, hair-pulling orgasm. Her moan was low and throaty and made Greta feel like a god.