Raw Pleasures
Music thumped low from a speaker.
Zara herself greeted Alina barefoot, curls bouncing, already rolling a joint between practiced fingers. “Come in, starving artist.”
They sprawled on the floor, smoke pooling around them. Laughter came easier here. Zara pulled Alina into the mirror’s glow, brushes already in hand.
“Tonight, babe, you’re not a painter. You’re my canvas.”
Alina snorted but let her. Soon her cheekbones glittered with metallic shimmer, her lips painted in glossy crimson. Zara added bold strokes to her own face, turning them both into exaggerated versions of runway models.
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