November Rain

November 2026

It's raining.

The rain slicks down their bodies, soaking through thin cotton, clinging like a second skin. Carina Marie Delvecchio--all curves, all tits, all heat--stands firm, fists clenched, dripping, pissed off. The streetlights catch the wet shine of her skin, her dark hair a wild mess, her brown eyes burning. She's got weight to her, presence, something solid, unshakable.

Anna Grace Whitmore looks like she might disappear.

Too small. Always too small. Five feet, maybe a ninety pounds soaking wet--and she is soaking wet--her pale arms wrapped around herself, her shoulders drawn in like she's trying to take up even less space. The rain runs in rivulets down her bare legs, her soaked-through shirt clinging to ribs and the flat plane of her stomach. No bra, because of course not, because Anna does things a certain way, and Carrie isn't even sure she owns one.

Carrie takes a step forward, anger cutting through the cold. "It's fuckin' cold out here," she says, even though she doesn't have to. Even though Anna already knows. "You ain't wearing a coat... hell, you ain't wearin' a goddamn bra!"

Anna takes a step back.

Carrie's jaw tightens. A guy in a heavy coat lingers nearby, watching, eyes flicking between them like he's waiting for something.

Carrie turns on him, sharp and instant. "Fuck off."

He does.

Anna exhales, slow, measured, her green eyes unreadable behind rain-streaked glasses.

"Carrie."

Just her name. No demand, no plea. Just a statement, like she's saying something final.

Anna doesn't flinch. Doesn't shiver. Doesn't do anything but stare, those green eyes too clear, too knowing. The rain runs down her face, dripping off her jaw like she's carved from marble, like she doesn't even notice.

Carrie notices. Notices everything. The way Anna looks like she belongs to the street more than the warm apartment they just left. Too small, too stubborn, her shirt clinging like she's being claimed by the rain. And Carrie feels like a fucking wrecking ball in comparison--too solid, too much.

November 2025

It's raining.

Anna's curled in Carrie's lap, skin warm, legs tangled together. She's smaller like this, compact in a way that makes Carrie want to hold on tighter, to press her closer. They're both nude, but Anna--somehow--feels more exposed. Maybe it's the way she lets Carrie touch her, the way she doesn't flinch when fingers trace her ribs, her stomach, her nipples. Maybe it's the way her black-framed glasses are pushed up onto her head, forgotten, leaving nothing between them but skin and the space where their breaths mix.

Carrie's grinning, lazy and sharp. "No tits."

Anna huffs. "Carrie."

"No, I mean, none." Carrie cups Anna's chest with both hands, a performative display of nothingness. "Like, where'd they go? They get lost?" She lets her thumbs brush over Anna's nipples, teasing, flicking, and Anna's breath catches, but Carrie doesn't stop. "You sure you didn't leave 'em somewhere? Maybe South Street? Maybe I should put up flyers--'Lost: One pair of tits, last seen on a tiny, crazy blonde with too many fuckin' keys in her purse.'"

Anna's trying not to laugh, biting her lip, but the corners of her mouth betray her.

Carrie leans in, nosing along Anna's jaw. "It's love, baby. You know that, right?"

Or it should be.

Anna knows. She's always known.

Carrie loves her. Fiercely, wholly, in a way that's bone-deep and unshakable. The kind of love that would take a bullet without hesitation, that would hold her hair back after too many drinks, that would dig a grave if she needed one dug. The love that would march into South Philly with brass knuckles and bad intentions if anyone ever fucked with her.

But it's not the love. Not the love Anna needs.

It's not candlelight and whispered confessions. Not love letters tucked under pillows or hands held just because. It's not waking up next to someone and knowing--knowing--they'll be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. It's not to-the-last-breath love.

Carrie doesn't love like that. Not her.

Anna's stomach twists, her laugh fading too soon, but she doesn't move away. She lets Carrie's fingers graze over her skin, lets herself pretend, just for a little longer, that this is enough.

Anna gasps, a quiet, breathy thing, as Carrie's mouth drags over her chest--warm, insistent, teasing. Her lips part against skin, mouthing nonsense between kisses, praise and filth tangled together. "Tiny little things," she murmurs, squeezing, thumbs brushing over stiff peaks, watching Anna's body respond to every touch. "Perfect. Perfect."

Anna's back arches, fingers threading through dark, damp hair. Carrie shifts, pressing her down, and suddenly Anna's on her back, pinned, all 127 pounds of Carina Marie Delvecchio sprawled on top of her, 12 of which is tits--pressed flush against Anna's ribs, heavy, soft, teasing.

And that face. That fuckin' face.

That smirk, all mischief and confidence, brown eyes full of something hot and unspoken. The kind of face that makes you feel like the only person in the world--until she's gone.

Carrie kisses her, deep and hard, and Anna barely has time to breathe before Carrie starts to move, sliding lower, her hands never leaving Anna's chest. Squeezing, teasing, dragging her nails down sensitive skin. Anna shudders, eyes fluttering closed, and lets Carrie take her apart.

Carrie sinks lower, mouth dragging across Anna's stomach, tongue flicking over the dip of her navel. She pauses, just for a second, hands still roaming--one squeezing Anna's small, perfect tits, the other tracing the sharp angle of her hip bone. Then lower.

Her breath catches, because, of course, Anna's as smooth as glass down here. Has been for years.

Carrie swipes her tongue across pristine, bare skin and, somewhere in the back of her mind, she feels a little twinge of jealousy. Because this? This is maintenance-free pussy. No last-minute shaving, no red bumps, no cursing in the CVS aisle because she ran out of wax strips. Just smooth, soft skin--lasered away at great fucking expense, because Anna Grace Whitmore doesn't half-ass anything.

Carrie would never admit it, but goddamn, that was a good investment.

She grins against Anna's skin, fingers spreading her open, mouth following. "Perfect," she murmurs, tongue flicking over her. Fucking perfect.

Anna gasps the second Carrie's tongue makes contact, a sharp, startled sound that melts into something breathy and broken. Her thighs twitch, start to close, but Carrie presses them back open, firm hands holding her exactly where she wants her.

Carrie does a few things well.

Retail management? Debatable--she's technically an assistant manager, but really, she's just the one who knows how to cover her ass when corporate comes sniffing.

Sarcasm? Unmatched. A gold-medal-level talent.

Ravioli? Better than your grandmother's, don't fucking test her.

Skincare? Flawless, even if she pretends she doesn't care.

But her greatest strength?

Carrie Delvecchio eats pussy like it's the only thing keeping her alive.

And right now, she's giving Anna Grace Whitmore her best effort.

Tongue deliberate, slow at first, teasing, just enough to make Anna whimper, make her hips lift, searching for more. Carrie hums against her, enjoying the way Anna's body reacts, the way she's already unraveling. She flicks, licks, then seals her lips around her clit and sucks--hard.

Anna shatters, a strangled cry slipping from her lips, fingers digging into Carrie's hair.

Carrie grins against her, smug as hell, and keeps going.

Through it all, Anna moans--gasps and whimpers spilling out in ways that would be soft, delicate, maybe even refined if they weren't so constant. It's not just the little sounds; it's the pace of them, the way they rise and break over each other, one after the next, like she can't hold them in even if she tried.

And she's not trying.

Thin walls make sure every desperate sound carries, putting on an audio drama for the Abramowitzs next door--an elderly couple who, at this exact moment, are deeply regretting their choice to retire in this building.

Harold sighs, pointedly flipping through his newspaper while Miriam turns up the volume on Wheel of Fortune.

"I wish you took up woodworking," she mutters, voice tight.

"I wish you took up bagpipes," Harold shoots back.

They both fall into tense silence, neither willing to address the problem head-on, just enduring the symphony of Carrie Delvecchio's undeniable talents.

Meanwhile, in the next room, Carrie presses her tongue flat against Anna, hands tightening around her thighs.

"Carrie--" Anna chokes, voice high, trembling.

Harold sighs again and loudly turns the page.

Carrie sweeps back up, body sliding over Anna's, pressing her down into the couch. Their skin is damp, flushed--Carrie's face wet from effort, from Anna. She doesn't give Anna time to catch her breath, just crashes their mouths together in a kiss that's deep, hot, filthy.

When she finally pulls back, she smirks, breath still ragged.

"This is better than my ravioli."

Anna barely gets out a laugh before Carrie's mouth is on hers again, softer this time, but just as insistent. She agrees without words, lips parting, fingers tightening in Carrie's messy dark hair.

Carrie grins against her lips.

"...And gluten-free," she mumbles.

Anna snorts--uncharacteristic, unguarded--and Carrie drinks in the sound like it's the best thing she's ever heard.

The door swings open, rattling the frame, and Zach's voice fills the apartment like he owns the place--because, in a way, he does.

"I hope you harpies are decent... if not, that's good too!" he calls, kicking off his wet boots, shaking out damp hair, smelling like tequila, street tacos, and bad decisions. He's been out with Hooch, Rocket, and Valiant--causing trouble, eating Mexican food off some cute girl's stomach, and probably talking his way out of a fight he almost wanted to have.

Carrie doesn't hesitate. One second, she's tangled up with naked little Anna, warm and lazy on the couch, and the next, she's vaulting over the back of it like a goddamn action hero, bare feet hitting the floor as she slams into Zach with a force that nearly knocks him backward.

She wraps around him, arms tight, face buried in his shoulder, and when she pulls back--her smile is a rival to the sun itself.

Zach blinks, momentarily caught off guard, his arms instinctively locking around Carrie's waist. She smells like sweat and skin and the faintest trace of Anna, her body warm against his, still flushed from whatever they were up to before he walked in.

But it's the way she says it--the way she looks at him, beaming, like he's the best thing she's seen all night.

"I missed you," she says, simple, honest.

And fuck--he believes her.

His smirk softens, hands settling on her hips. "Yeah?" he mutters, just a little rough around the edges, voice thick with exhaustion and tequila.

Carrie nods, pressing closer, eyes locked on his. "Yeah."

November 2026

It's still raining.

Carrie shakes her head, rain dripping off the ends of her dark hair. She doesn't get it. Or she does get it, but she doesn't think it matters.

"It's just fuckin' dinner," she insists, voice sharp, stubborn. "That's all."

Anna stares at her, lips parted, eyes wide behind rain-streaked glasses. She looks at Carrie like she's something distant, something slipping away, something Anna's only now realizing she was never going to hold onto in the first place.

"You think so?" Anna asks, her voice barely audible over the rain, but Carrie hears it.

"Yeah."

Anna exhales, something ragged, something breaking. She swipes at her face, but the rain makes it pointless.

"It's what he wants for dinner," she says, and her voice cracks. "It's what he wants to watch. It's where he wants to go."

And suddenly, it's not about dinner. It's never just about dinner.

She's crying now, frustration spilling onto the sidewalk to mix with the rain, and Carrie--who can fight, who can joke, who can take a punch and throw one back--has no fucking clue what to do with it.

"You fuck me, " she says, "But you make love to him."

"Zach's my husband, Anna," Carrie says, like that should be enough, like that should explain everything. And it should. It really fucking should.

But Anna just looks at her, eyes wet, jaw tight, rain dripping from the ends of her blonde hair, clinging to her glasses.

Carrie exhales hard, frustration knotting in her chest. This isn't about dinner, it's not about TV, it's not about where to go. It's about Zach. It's about the way Carrie looks at him, the way she loves him--not just with her body, but with her fucking soul.

And Anna? Anna wants that. Not the sex, not the teasing, not just Carrie's hands or her mouth or her sharp fucking smirk--she wants all of her. Every look, every laugh, every piece of her heart that Carrie never even thought about giving away because it was already spoken for.

Carrie worships Anna's body, throws her the same lazy, heated looks she tosses at Zach when she's in the mood to make trouble--but it's not the same. It never was.

And maybe Anna knew that. Maybe she thought she could live with it. But now? Standing here in the fuckin' rain, shivering and small in a way that makes Carrie's chest ache, she realizes--maybe she can't.

Carrie clenches her jaw, takes a step closer, voice dropping.

"That's not gonna change," she says, low and firm. "I'm with that sleepy idiot to the last fuckin' breath."

Anna stares at her bare feet, freezing on the cold cement. "I know."