CHAPTER 2 #5
A slow, real, genuine smile spread across Monique’s face—a smile that reached all the way to her eyes, softening the hard edges of her face completely.
"Got you, babe," Monique whispered.
Denise’s face softened instantly, those deep, beautiful dimples cutting into her dark cheeks.
She leaned in again, kissing Monique slower this time—a long, sweet, lingering slide of tongues that smelled of mint and cocoa butter.
Monique’s hands crept up under the hem of Denise’s purple sweatshirt, her bare palms resting flat against the incredible, radiating heat of Denise’s lower back, feeling the soft, smooth skin over her spine.
Outside the bathroom door, footsteps rushed past down the corridor. Someone rattled the exterior handle twice, found it locked, and knocked hard against the wood.
"Hey! Somebody in there?" a female voice called out.
Denise and Monique broke apart slowly, both of them flushed, their breathing uneven, their eyes shining in the harsh fluorescent light.
Denise smoothed her purple sweatshirt down over her hips, reached up, and carefully adjusted two of Monique’s braids that had fallen out of place during the chaos.
"I guess that’s our cue to go finish our lunch," Denise smiled, her voice low and sweet.
Monique unlocked the deadbolt with a sharp CLICK.
They stepped out into the hallway, passing a blonde sophomore girl who was standing outside holding a makeup bag. The girl looked at Monique, looked at Denise’s disheveled sweatshirt, and offered a tiny, knowing, scandalous smile as she slipped inside the bathroom.
Denise didn't hesitate for a single second.
As they stepped back into the main corridor leading toward the dining hall, Denise reached down, found Monique’s hand, and laced her long fingers through Monique’s without asking for permission.
Monique looked down at their joined hands—dark chocolate skin intertwined with deep mahogany skin, simple, open, and completely unhidden. Her heart did a strange, violent flip inside her chest, but she didn't pull away. She tightened her grip, matching Denise’s long stride step for step.
They walked back into the crowded food court like that—hand in hand, open, proud, and completely unbothered by the lingering glances of fifty students who were still whispering about the tooth sitting on the floor.
When they reached the window booth, the netball team was practically vibrating with excitement.
Cindy leaned clear across the table the second Monique sat down next to Denise. "Okay! Real talk right now! Are y'all two actually together or what?"
Denise didn't drop Monique’s hand. She lifted their joined fingers, resting them right on top of the laminate table where the entire room could see them, and squeezed Monique’s knuckles gently.
"Yeah," Denise said, her voice clear, proud, and completely steady. "We are. Proudly so."
Tasha let out a loud, appreciative whoop, slapping her hand against the vinyl booth. "ABOUT TIME! Jesus Christ, Denise, I thought I was gonna have to listen to you whine about her bench press form for another three weeks!"
Brielle smiled wider, offering Monique a warm nod. "Congrats, Monique. You’re brave as hell. This girl right here is a whole entire handful."
Monique felt a warm, prickling heat climb up the back of her neck, but for the first time in her life, it wasn't the heat of embarrassment or anger. It was something clean. Something good.
She picked up a cold French fry from her tray and pointed it accusingly at Denise’s dimpled smile. "She’s worth the trouble."
They ate their cold lunch together. For the next thirty minutes, the conversation flowed with an easy, natural rhythm that Monique had never experienced in her life.
They talked about the netball team’s upcoming road trip to Chicago, a sociology professor who still insisted on using an ancient overhead projector that burned out every twenty minutes, and the best late-night greasy-spoon diners off Woodward Avenue where you could get double cheeseburgers at three in the morning.
Monique found herself laughing—really, truly laughing—at a story Tasha told about Cindy getting her shoe stuck in a mud pit during outdoor practice.
And through the entire meal, under the cover of the table, Denise’s bare, smooth knee stayed pressed firm against Monique’s thigh—a steady, warm anchor that kept Monique grounded to the earth.
When the bell rang for the one-o'clock classes, Denise walked Monique halfway across the brick quad toward the Criminal Justice building, holding her hand until they reached the bottom of the concrete steps.
Denise stopped, pulled Monique close by her waist, and leaned in to press a firm, sweet kiss directly onto Monique’s cheek—right there in the bright midday sunlight, in front of fifty passing students.
"Come to my dorm room after your last lecture," Denise murmured against her skin, her voice dropping into that dark, velvety register that made Monique’s stomach drop. "I’ll be waiting for you, Gray."
Monique’s core tightened instantly, a fresh wave of heat rolling through her lower belly as her mind flashed back to the narrow twin bed, the tangled sheets, and the absolute ruin Denise had made of her body six hours ago.
She offered Denise a slow, promise-filled smile. "I’ll be there."
***
The remaining hours of the afternoon dissolved into a meaningless blur of academic background noise.
Monique sat through two hours of Constitutional Law and Evidence, her pen moving across her notebook out of habit, recording dates, case titles, and legal precedents she knew she would have to re-read later.
Every time her cell phone buzzed against her thigh inside her pocket, her heart gave a sudden, violent leap.
At two-forty-five, a text came through from Denise:
Thinking about your fine-ass mouth while I’m supposed to be dissecting a frog. Hurry up, Gray.
Monique had been forced to press her thighs tight together under the oak desk, taking three deep, controlled breaths through her nose to stop the sudden, intense pulse of heat that flooded between her legs.
When the final lecture ended at four o'clock, the sun was beginning its long, slow descent toward the horizon, painting the red brick buildings of the Detroit College campus in long, fiery streaks of amber and purple.
Monique didn't linger. She walked back to her dorm room, dropped her heavy text-filled knapsack onto her desk, checked her reflection in the small mirror for three seconds—smoothing her braids, reapplying her clear lip gloss—and walked straight out the door toward the Harriet Tubman Residence Hall.
She didn't allow herself time to overthink it. She didn't let her old instincts—the cold, cynical voices that told her she was moving too fast, giving up too much ground, letting someone get too close—take the wheel.
She reached Room 320.
The hallway smelled faintly of microwaved buttered popcorn and the cheap lavender detergent the girls on the third floor shared. Monique stood outside the painted white door, took one deep breath, and knocked twice—firm and steady.
The door opened almost instantly.
Denise stood in the doorway. She had changed out of her athletic gear into an oversized, faded black cotton t-shirt that belonged to some local Detroit boxing gym.
It was so large it hung loose off her broad shoulders, the hem barely reaching the top of her mid-thighs, leaving her long, bare chocolate legs completely exposed.
Her locs were down now, soft and thick around her face, framing her sharp cheekbones.
She looked at Monique for two long seconds, her brown eyes dark, warm, and entirely open.
"You came," Denise said softly.
"I said I would," Monique replied, her voice quieter than she intended.
Denise stepped back, opening the door wide. Monique stepped inside, and the latch clicked shut behind her with a soft, final thunk.
The room was illuminated by the soft, warm golden light of the late afternoon sun spilling through the aluminum blinds, casting long, peaceful slats of light across the narrow bed, the wooden desk, and the small beige carpet.
On the windowsill, a small vanilla-scented candle was burning, its tiny yellow flame sending a sweet, warm aroma through the quiet space.
There was nowhere to hide. There was no night sky, no dark corners, no rain or shower steam to cover them. It was just the two of them, standing in the middle of a small dorm room in the middle of the afternoon.
Denise reached out, her long fingers hooking lightly into the front belt loops of Monique’s dark Levi’s, tugging her two inches closer.
"You good after everything today?" Denise asked gently, her dark eyes searching Monique’s face with genuine concern.
"I’m good," Monique said, her breathing slowing down as Denise’s hands slid up under the hem of her black crop top, her warm, bare palms coming to rest flat against the skin of Monique’s waist. "You?"
"I’m a whole lot better now that you’re standing in my room," Denise murmured, her thumbs stroking small, soothing circles into the soft skin above Monique’s hips.
"I been thinking about you all damn day, Gray.
Thinking about how fine you looked when you dropped that nigga on the floor.
Thinking about how you tasted in that shower last night. "
Monique’s throat went dry.
She reached up, took hold of Denise’s locs, pulled her face down, and kissed her.
The kiss started slow—a sweet, tasting exploration of lips and breath—but within five seconds, the heat between them ignited into something deep, heavy, and urgent.
Their tongues slid together, wet and demanding, their bodies coming together until the backs of Monique’s knees hit the edge of the narrow twin mattress.
They tumbled down onto the bed together, careful of the small space, their hands already moving with frantic, hungry speed over clothes and skin.