Chapter Text
Agatha Harkness hated sports.
She didn’t hate athletes, per se. She hated the culture. The reverence. The assumption that because someone could throw a ball well, the world ought to kneel. And she especially hated being pulled off a deeply promising investigation into campaign finance violations in the State Senate because Jenn, her editor, had decided that the sports desk needed “an edge” for an WNBA season.
“We need someone who can write,” Jenn had said, like it was a compliment. “Someone who won’t drool all over the players. Someone who’ll actually ask hard questions.”
Agatha didn’t look up from her coffee. “So you want me to piss off the MVP.”
“I want you to cover the story.”
Agatha had laughed, sharp and humorless. “You want me to babysit a basketball game.”
Jenn sighed. She was perched on the edge of Agatha’s desk like she owned the place, which, in a way, she did. Her Louboutin heel tapped against the metal drawer, rhythmically annoying. “Look Agatha, not everything is about corruption and power brokers and whistleblowers. Sometimes people just want to read about sweaty women doing incredible things with balls.”
“Charming.”
Jenn smiled. “Thank you.”
“Wasn’t a compliment,” Agatha said dryly, flipping through her notebook. “But sure, take it. God knows your ego needs it.”
“You know I hate sports,” she added, finally looking up.
“And yet I keep sending you to cover things you hate. It’s almost like you write better when you’re pissed off.”
“Maybe because you only assign me things specifically to piss me off.”
Jenn gave an exaggerated shrug. “It works.”
Agatha leaned back in her chair. “What happened to Steve?”
“Steve called Rio Vidal a lanky tomboy with too much eyeliner in a live tweet and is now banned from the stadium.” Jenn smirked. “We thought you might be... subtler.”
“That’s a first,” Agatha muttered, arching an eyebrow. “Right. Nothing inspires hard hitting journalism like the sound of sneakers squeaking on hardwood and twenty dollar nachos.”
Jenn smirked. “It’s a system that works.”
“For you. I get court side whiplash and exposure to the heterosexual nuclear family.”
“Well, technically, this one’s queer. You should feel right at home.”
Agatha gave her a long, withering look. “Jenn.”
Jenn grinned wider. “And also, unlike Steve, you’re queer enough that the internet can’t crucify us for assigning you to cover a “trans lesbian darling”, as TikTok has so lovingly dubbed her.”
Agatha scowled. “You are insufferable.”
Jenn hopped off the desk, smoothing the front of her designer skirt. “And you’re going to Brooklyn this weekend. Pack sunscreen.”
“I hope a basketball ball hits you in the face.”
“I’ll take it as a compliment. Now go make someone cry with your keyboard. Preferably not me.”
Agatha flipped her off. Jenn blew her a kiss.
Agatha grimaced. “God, I already hate this.”
“Just don’t flirt with her.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
And she wasn’t. She meant that. Agatha had no interest in getting cozy with athletes. She had a very strict policy about professionalism. She’d interviewed senators with blood on their hands and CEOs with NDAs longer than the Constitution. She was not going to be thrown off by a woman in sneakers.
And then she saw Rio Vidal in person.
Five foot nine, sharp eyed, lean muscled, cocky as hell. The kind of woman who knew the cameras were on her and didn’t just play well, she performed. She grinned like she already knew the ending of the story, and it went exactly how she wanted. Three time All Star, explosive point guard for the New York Liberty, currently averaging twenty six points a game. And because the universe liked to torture Agatha, also a bonafide queer icon, crowned by every glittering corner of the internet she’d tried (unsuccessfully) not to click through.
Now Agatha was sitting courtside, notepad balanced on her knee, trying not to roll her eyes every time the crowd screamed for number 96.
“Hot, isn’t she?” someone muttered beside her.
Agatha didn’t look. “Objectively, yes. Annoyingly so.”
The woman laughed. “You’re new.”
Agatha jotted something down. “Observant.”
“And not a fan.”
“I’m a reporter,” she replied flatly. “There’s a difference.”
“Mm,” the woman said, amused. “Sure.”
Agatha finally turned to look at her. Mid thirties, glossy hair, tailored pantsuit. Professional, polished, and radiating that particular kind of confidence that came from managing someone famous, and knowing it.
The woman held out a hand. “Alice. I’m her agent.”
Of course she was. Agatha shook it, firm and brief. “Agatha Harkness. New York Times.”
Alice’s smile widened, slow and knowing. “I know who you are.”
Agatha stilled for half a second. Of course she did. That was the problem.
She could see it happening already, the gears turning behind the agent’s eyes. The name recognition. The reputation. The subtle shift in posture that said: Ah. You’re the one with teeth.
Agatha straightened slightly in her seat, already dreading the inevitable PR dance. She wasn’t here to fangirl. She wasn’t here to make friends. She was here to do her job, ask questions, and maybe, if the stars aligned, knock a few egos down a peg or two.
But Alice just tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes back on the court, voice almost lazy. “If you’re planning to go for the jugular, I’d suggest doing it before the next game. She plays better when she’s pissed.”
Agatha arched her brow. “Noted.”
—---------------
The first time Rio noticed her, it was after a game.
Her adrenaline was still high, buzzing just beneath her skin like static. The court still echoed faintly in her head, shoes squeaking, whistles blowing, the low thrum of the crowd vibrating in her ribs. Sweat clung to the collar of her jersey, and a damp curl stuck stubbornly to the nape of her neck. Her hands were still twitching from the rush of movement, of impact, of speed.
And then she saw her.
Sitting in the second row of press, legs crossed, back straight, black slacks and a button up like she’d walked straight out of a deposition. No team colors. No foam fingers. No media lanyard dangling off a hoodie. Just cool detachment, a leather bound notebook, and a stare sharp enough to draw blood.
Pen poised. Gaze steady. Red lips pressed into something that could’ve been a smirk or a sneer, depending on how charitable you were feeling.
Not a fan. Not a blogger. Not press fluff.
Predator.
Rio liked that.
Most of the reporters wanted quotes, drama, little gold soundbites they could feed to headlines. They asked her about her mindset, her energy, her playlist. The woman in the second row? She looked like she wanted to dissect her. Like she already had.
So Rio ignored the first few questions lobbed her way, the softballs about team morale and playoff energy, and leaned forward into the mic with that cocky smile she knew the cameras loved.
“You,” she said, eyes locking on the stranger. “With the frown. You got a question?”
The room shifted. Heads turned. Cameras clicked.
The woman didn’t blink. “Do you regret the third quarter turnover?”
Her voice was low, clipped, measured. Not harsh, but clinical. Rio arched a brow.
“Which one?”
“The one where you tried to thread a no look pass through three defenders,” the woman replied, pen unmoving. “Gave Chicago an easy layup. Changed the momentum of the quarter.”
Ah. That one.
Rio tilted her head, grinning wider. “I don’t regret it,” she said slowly. “I learn from it. Part of the job.”
The woman hummed. Not quite approval. Not quite sure. Just... considering.
“And if you lose the series?” she asked next, just as calm.
Rio didn’t flinch. “Then I’ll learn from that too.” She let her smile sharpen. “But we won’t.”
A beat passed.
And then she winked.
The woman didn’t react. Not a flinch. Not a twitch. She just looked at Rio like she was a question she already knew the answer to, but wanted to hear her say it anyway.
Interesting.
Most people cracked under attention like that. Giggled. Blushed. Played nice.
Not her.
Rio didn’t even know her name yet, but something in her gut already told her this woman was going to be a problem.
—------------
Later that night, Agatha filed her piece. It was brutal. Clean. Fair. She didn’t fawn over the stars or pretend the game had been some divine ballet. She talked about the turnovers. The defensive holes. The cockiness of a point guard who seemed to think the spotlight was her birthright.
The headline: “Vidal Dazzles, But Can She Deliver?”
It hit the front page of the digital sports section by morning.
Agatha didn’t expect a response. Athletes rarely cared what journalists thought, especially the good ones.
She certainly didn’t expect Rio Vidal to show up at her press table the next day, sweat towel slung around her neck, curls damp, lips parted in a lazy grin.
She stopped just in front of Agatha, leaned over the table, and tapped the open screen of her laptop with a perfectly manicured nail.
“You wrote that?” she asked, voice low and amused. “Or just copy it off someone with a grudge?”
Agatha didn’t look up immediately. She finished typing her sentence, hit save, and then raised her eyes, slow and unimpressed.
“That depends,” she said. “Are you planning on suing me?”
Rio smirked. “Why? You nervous?”
“I don’t get nervous,” Agatha replied.
That made Rio laugh, sharp and delighted. “Cute. You write like someone who’s never played a team sport in her life.”
“I haven’t,” Agatha said. “I prefer games with higher stakes.”
Rio cocked her head. “Is that what this is? A game?”
“No,” Agatha said, eyes flicking to the headline again. “This is work. You just happen to be very… quotable.”
Rio leaned in closer, arms resting on the edge of the table. She smelled like sweat and citrus body wash, and something else, something expensive and infuriatingly confident.
“I can deliver,” she said, voice low, eyes locked on Agatha’s. “On court. Off court. Whatever the assignment calls for.”
They stared at each other. Beat. Agatha’s lips curved, slightly.
“Flirting with a reporter mid series is either bold or stupid.”
“I’m not flirting,” Rio said smoothly. “I’m just making conversation.”
“Mm.” Agatha turned back to her laptop. “Then we’re done here.”
But Rio lingered. “Tell you what, Harkness. You come to tomorrow’s game. I’ll give you something worth writing about.”
Agatha didn’t look up. “You’re not the story, Vidal. The game is.”
Rio leaned in, her voice low. “Then I guess I’ll have to make sure I am the story.”
Agatha didn’t respond, didn’t so much as twitch.
She waited until Rio had sauntered off, cool and unhurried, like she hadn’t just walked into Agatha’s space and lit a match, before she let out a low breath and reopened her laptop. The cursor blinked at her, judgmental.
Her fingers hovered over the keys.
She hated the way her pulse was still ticking high in her throat. The way her body was betraying her, warm, alert, interested. The way Rio had leaned in like she already knew the next article would be about her.
Cocky little shit.
Agatha exhaled, long and slow, tried to refocus on her notes. Stats. Turnovers. Defensive gaps. Quotes she hadn’t used yet.
But instead, all she could think about was the scent of citrus and sweat. The glint of a chain around Rio’s throat. The way she’d said “on court, off court” with that slow smirk, like she was offering something other than an interview.
Agatha blinked hard and backspaced an entire paragraph.
She was going to need a drink before she could write a single clean sentence.
And worse, she already knew she’d be at that game tomorrow.
Just to see if Rio could deliver.
—--------------
The next day, Agatha arrived earlier than she needed to.
She told herself it was to beat the traffic. To get a good seat. To observe pre game dynamics.
But as she stood behind the baseline, scribbling down notes as players warmed up, her eyes kept drifting to Rio.
Warming up in a hoodie and shorts, her short curled hair pulled back in a loose puff, headphones on. Not showing off. Just moving like she knew the cameras were watching, even if she wasn’t looking at them.
Even if, right now, she was looking at Agatha.
Agatha froze. Their eyes locked. Across the court, Rio grinned.
Agatha immediately looked away.
Jesus Christ.
—----------
The game was fast and brutal. New York played like they had something to prove. Rio especially. She moved like lightning, steals, no look passes, deep threes that didn’t just hit, they sank. The crowd roared. Somewhere in the third quarter, the camera caught her mouthing “That one was for you.”
Agatha pretended not to see it.
She absolutely saw it.
By the time the buzzer sounded and the Liberty walked off with a sixteen point lead, Agatha had half a page of game notes and three whole paragraphs describing Rio’s expression after a fourth quarter assist. She hated herself a little.
—-------
In the tunnel post game, the press was a swarm. Flashbulbs, microphones, post game soundbites.
Agatha didn’t stick around.
She’d gotten what she needed, stats, reactions, one liners. She didn’t care to be part of the mosh pit of reporters chasing locker room crumbs. She moved down the side corridor instead, back toward the media exit, her notebook tucked under her arm and her press badge lanyard swinging at her sternum.
The hallway was quieter here. Dimmer. The buzz of the arena faded behind her, replaced by the low hum of vents and the occasional scuff of rubber soles on polished concrete.
She rounded a corner and nearly ran into her.
Rio.
Still in her jersey, sweat still clinging to her temples. A towel looped around her neck, head tilted, that same insufferable grin on her face like she knew Agatha would be right here, right now.
“Going somewhere?” Rio asked, voice low, eyes gleaming.
Agatha stepped back half a pace. “You have a press conference.”
Rio shrugged. “They can wait.”
There was no one else around. No cameras. No Alice. Just them in the echoing quiet of the hallway and the soft drip drip of water somewhere near the pipes.
Agatha crossed her arms. “What, are you lurking now?”
Rio took a step closer. “I prefer waiting dramatically.’”
Agatha gave her a look.
Rio tilted her head. “So?” she asked. “Did I give you something worth writing about?”
Agatha hesitated, then let a smirk curl at the edge of her mouth. “You were showy. Reckless.”
Rio moved in another step, toe of her sneaker nearly touching Agatha’s heel. “And brilliant.”
Agatha sighed, long and theatrical. “And brilliant.”
Rio chuckled softly. “Knew it.”
They stood like that for a beat. Close. Quiet. The arena noise felt worlds away now. The air between them buzzed with something unspoken, challenge, attraction, curiosity.
Rio stepped closer again, until they were toe to toe, until Agatha could feel the heat rolling off her like a challenge.
“Then tell me to back off,” Rio murmured, voice low, teasing. “Go ahead. Say it.”
Agatha’s eyes flicked to her mouth, then back up. “If I tell you to back off, you’ll just get closer.”
Rio smiled. “You’re getting smarter.”
Agatha licked her lips, just once. “You’re getting cocky.”
“I am cocky,” Rio said. “That’s the fun part.”
She leaned in, closer now. Agatha could smell her, the citrus, the salt, the aftershock of victory clinging to her like perfume.
“You don’t even like basketball do you?,” Rio murmured.
“No,” Agatha said, tilting her chin up slightly. “But I’m starting to like the view.”
She hated how easily that slipped out. Hated even more the way Rio’s grin widened, all teeth and trouble.
And god, this was so stupid.
Unprofessional. Inappropriate. The kind of thing that got people fired or blacklisted or turned into messy Twitter threads. She was supposed to be writing a column, not getting pressed up against five foot nine heartbreak in sneakers and a jersey that clung in all the wrong places.
This wasn’t her kind of party.
She didn’t flirt at work. She didn’t melt for athletes. She didn’t do messy.
And yet.
Rio laughed under her breath, then reached up, slowly, deliberately, to tuck a piece of Agatha’s hair behind her ear. Her fingers brushed against skin, warm, electric.
“You're going to write about this, aren’t you?” she asked.
Agatha’s voice was almost a whisper. “Not everything has to be written down.”
Rio's eyes searched hers for a beat. Then she moved in, no hesitation, no drama. Just heat and intent and confidence.
And kissed her.
The kiss came sharp, hungry and uninvited, like Rio had been waiting all week to do it. Her mouth slanted over Agatha’s with no pretense, no warm up, just the immediate press of want. Her hand slid up Agatha’s arm, fingers splayed possessively, while the other curved around the small of her back and yanked her in like she had every right to claim her.
Agatha gasped into her mouth, surprised at the speed, at the sheer heat of it. But her body reacted before her mind caught up. Her hand curled into Rio’s jersey, clutching tight, pulling her even closer.
The kiss deepened. Opened. Turned greedy.
Teeth scraped. Tongues collided. And for a moment, for just one taut, electric second, it felt like the hallway walls might collapse around them.
Rio wedged her thigh between Agatha’s legs. High. Firm. Shameless. Her muscles flexed against Agatha’s center with practiced ease, like she knew exactly how to break her open.
Agatha moaned, quiet, bitten off, but there. The sound echoed in her own ears, humiliating and electric. Her hips jerked forward instinctively, traitorously, grinding against Rio’s thigh without meaning to. Needing it.
Rio didn’t break the kiss. She just smiled into it. Smug. Shifted her knee higher, adding more pressure. Rocked it. Just once. Enough.
Agatha let out a whine. Rougher. Her head hit the wall behind her, hand scrambling blindly for leverage. But it wasn’t just for balance, it was survival. If she didn’t plant herself, she was going to ride Rio’s leg like a desperate college girl in a locker room.
What the fuck are you doing? her brain screamed.
This was a hallway. A work hallway. After a press conference. With cameras not too far away.
But Rio had looked at her like she wanted to get devoured. Like she wanted to be used. Her lips were swollen. Her cheek flushed. And her thigh was still right there, cocky and commanding between Agatha’s legs.
When they finally pulled apart, panting, heat stung and swollen lipped, Rio didn’t retreat.
She stayed close. Pressed their foreheads together. Let her breath tickle Agatha’s mouth.
“I knew you’d flinch eventually,” she whispered, voice hoarse and delighted.
Agatha tried to breathe. Her mouth was still parted, her pulse hammering.
“That wasn’t a flinch,” she said finally.
“Mm. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“That was restraint. You’re lucky I didn’t fuck you against the wall.” Agatha said casually.
Rio groaned. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second.
“That was a gift, Harkness,” she rasped. “A professional courtesy.” Rio leaned in again, brushing her lips, gently this time, over the edge of Agatha’s jaw.
“Reckless looks good on you,” she whispered.
And then she was gone, striding down the hall like she hadn’t just made Agatha soaked through $80 panties in under three minutes.
Agatha stayed pressed against the wall, eyes closed, jaw clenched, heart fucking racing.
She counted to ten. She still wasn’t calm.
And her thighs were still trembling.
—----------
That was how it started for them.
Three months ago. In a hallway under the Barclays Center, after a game and a headline and a kiss that should’ve never happened.
It was supposed to be a one, time thing. Just adrenaline. Curiosity. The kind of mistake two ambitious women with too much pride and not enough impulse control could bury under work and post game interviews.
But they didn’t bury it.
They fed it.
First it was texts. Then it was hotel rooms. Then it was hands under coats in black SUVs with tinted windows, and Agatha pressing Rio up against marble sinks in women’s bathrooms with the door locked and her mouth against her throat.
The first time they’d fucked, Rio had gone quiet when Agatha’s hand slipped low. Rio’s cock was thick, flushed, already hard from nothing but Agatha’s voice in her ear, but her breath hitched, her spine going rigid. That was never a secret, at least not between them. Agatha had figured it out early.
“I know it’s not what most people expect,” she said, voice low, eyes not quite meeting hers. “Sometimes it freaks them out.”
Agatha didn’t flinch. She just pushed Rio gently down on the mattress, straddled her hips, and smiled like sin.
“As long as it’s as big as it feels,” she murmured, sliding her hips forward, letting the weight of her cunt drag over the head of Rio’s cock, “and I can use it to fuck myself until I forget my name, why would I care pretty girl?”
Rio had choked on a moan. All her tension melted. From that moment forward, Agatha had made it her mission to worship every inch of her.
No one knew.
No one could know.
Not the league. Not the press. Not Jenn. Especially not Jenn.
Because if word got out that the Times reporter assigned to cover the WNBA playoffs was fucking the Liberty’s star point guard, well, it wouldn’t be just Agatha’s career going up in flames. It would be Rio’s, too.
But the risk only made it worse.
Some people fucked for connection. For comfort. For love.
Agatha and Rio? They fucked like they were echo chambers of the same obsession. Like each time was a dare, touch me like you mean it, ruin me like you want to. Like they needed to burn a hole through the secrecy just to feel real again.
They were echoers, they realized. Not just in bed, but everywhere. Rio was cocky because Agatha was cruel. Agatha was cruel because Rio begged for it.
The first time Agatha pulled her hair and said, "You like being my disty secret?" Rio had moaned, not just agreed, but thrived.
The first time Rio bent her over a locker room bench and whispered, "You want them to hear, don’t you?" Agatha came without a sound, but with trembling legs and nails clawed into vinyl.
And God, the stamina.
Agatha had interviewed senators, tracked down war criminals, chased stories through three countries and two near-death experiences, but nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared her for the fact that Rio Vidal had more endurance in bed than she did on the court.
She fucked like an athlete. Multiple rounds. No mercy. No breaks unless Agatha begged, and even then, Rio would just smile and ask, "You writing this down, baby?"
It was deranged.
It was addictive.
It was the most alive Agatha had felt in years.
And they kept going. Cities changed, games passed, the series kept moving forward, but they kept circling each other. Between flights. Between press conferences. Between pretenses.
All it took was a look across the court, or a two word text: room 418.
And suddenly Agatha was pinned against a wall, Rio’s cock inside her again, the game stats forgotten on the floor.
They weren’t dating.
They’d never said those words. Never defined it. Never labeled it anything other than this, whatever this was.
But they were exclusive.
Agatha had made her position clear early on, with a hand wrapped firm around Rio’s throat, her mouth brushing the shell of her ear as she whispered, “I don’t share.”
And Rio, for all her self preservation instincts, hadn’t wanted to be shared either.
She’d nodded, lips parted, eyes wide, something like relief and arousal flooding her system in equal measure.
She’d told herself it didn’t matter. That it was about convenience. Chemistry. Proximity.
But then Rio had started texting her outside of games. Sending her songs. Dropping little videos of herself in practice. Once, she’d mailed Agatha a hot sauce she claimed was “life changing.” Agatha had tried it. It had burned. And she’d ordered two more bottles.
Rio had taken her to places she’d never go on her own. A late night taco stand in the Bronx. A street fair in Queens. A film screening in Rio's apartment where they sat on the floor and drank out of red Solo cups. Agatha, who usually recoiled at anything with plastic cutlery, had found herself leaning against Rio’s shoulder, her fingers sticky with elote.
Rio was younger. Sharper. Half Puerto Rican and proud of it, unapologetic in ways Agatha both admired and envied. She spoke with her hands, danced like she didn’t care who was watching, and laughed like she knew she was going to outlive everyone in the room.
And that’s why, tonight, Agatha was at a Latin club in the Lower East Side for Rio’s 27th birthday party.
Technically, she was there as press. That was the story.
Alice had contacted Jenn a week ago, dropping it like a hot little exclusive: a private birthday party for New York’s hottest WNBA star, invite only, athletes and celebrities in attendance, a chance to “capture the vibe.” Jenn had said yes immediately.
Agatha hadn’t been given a choice.
She’d been told to “blend in,” “get the feel,” and “maybe not wear all black for once.”
She tried, she really did.
The purple dress was short, sleeveless, form fitting. The heels were black and sky high. She’d even curled her hair and swapped her signature red lipstick for something glossier. But the moment she stepped into the club, she knew she’d miscalculated.
The place was packed. Loud, hot, pulsing with reggaeton that vibrated through the floor and into her chest. Neon lights strobed over bodies pressed together, glistening with sweat, wearing, if anything, scraps of fabric that barely passed as clothing.
Agatha looked around and realized, very quickly, that she was overdressed in a room full of underdressed twenty somethings. Everyone was younger. Tighter. Louder. Her knees already ached from the heels, and her dress, expensive as it was, felt too stiff, too corporate.
Famous people milled about near the VIP section: a few rappers Agatha only recognized from TikTok, a model she was pretty sure had dated someone in Formula 1, two actors from a streaming show she’d reviewed once and called “a hollow thirst trap.”
And then there were the athletes, WNBA stars from other teams, two Olympic runners, a featherweight boxer Rio had introduced her to in passing once with a wink and a “don’t fight her, she’ll win.”
Everywhere she turned: sweat, bodies, drinks, laughter. Spanish and English weaving in and out. Someone popped a bottle of champagne three feet away. Someone else poured tequila straight into another girl’s mouth.
Agatha stood near the edge of it all, clutching her little glass of something citrusy and deeply alcoholic, eyes scanning for the only person who mattered. The music had shifted again, something faster, filthier. The kind of beat that made people grind without shame.
And then she saw her.
Rio was in the center of it all, radiant, golden, soaked in sweat and joy. Her skin shimmered under the lights, her hoops catching flashes of neon. She moved like the music lived inside her. Shoulders loose. Hips rolling. Laughing with her whole mouth, teeth and tongue and mischief.
And she wasn’t alone.
Dancing close, too close, was a brunette with long curls and ink all down her arms, tattoos blooming over her collarbone and rib. Her top was barely a top, a halter held together by a silver ring in the center of her chest. Low rise jeans clung to her hips, and her hands were everywhere.
One curled lazily around Rio’s neck. Another rested low on her back, guiding their bodies together. They weren’t grinding, yet. But it was close enough to send a flare of heat down Agatha’s spine.
The woman was gorgeous. Boricua, clearly. She moved like she belonged there, like she belonged with Rio.
Agatha’s jaw clenched.
She took a sip of her drink. Too fast, too sharp. Her lipstick smeared.
She didn’t care.
The brunette leaned in to whisper something against Rio’s ear, something that made Rio throw her head back and laugh. Agatha watched the way Rio’s hand slid down to the other woman’s waist, fingers hooking briefly in a belt loop. Familiar. Casual. Possessive.
Agatha hadn’t even realized she was gripping the stem of her glass until it nearly snapped in her hand.
Rio didn’t move. Not when their eyes met. Not when the crowd thinned slightly between them. Not when Agatha set her drink down on the tray of a passing waiter with a flick of her fingers and began to walk, heels clicking, hips deliberate, mouth set in a thin, dangerous line.
No.
Rio just stood there. Hands by her sides. Chin tilted up. Eyes wide and watchful like a girl caught in headlights who didn’t want to move. Not yet.
She was wearing long denim shorts that clung to her hips, rolled at the edges, worn in and soft. Her white button down shirt was half unbuttoned, clinging damp to her skin, translucent where the sweat had soaked through. It outlined the shape of her abs, the cut of her muscles, the power in her arms
The brunette beside her, still draped in tattoos and sweat and smug energy, barely noticed until Agatha was close enough to smell the sugar on her skin. She gave Agatha a once over the heels, the dress, the curve of her smirk and visibly sized her up.
Agatha didn’t blink. She turned her head slightly. Addressed Rio without looking at the girl.
“Having fun?” Her voice was low. Calm. The kind of calm that made people nervous. The kind that came just before a storm.
Rio licked her lips. “It’s my party.”
“It is.” Agatha’s eyes dragged down her body. “You look good.”
“So do you,” Rio said, a little too quickly. Her voice was already shifting, softer, smaller. A flicker of something passed between them. Submission. Recognition.
The brunette finally seemed to sense it. She turned toward Rio and brushed her fingers down the front of her crop top again, too casually, too performatively.
Agatha stepped closer.
She didn’t touch Rio. Not yet. She just let her hand drift lightly almost accidentally, over the back of the brunette’s exposed shoulder, fingers grazing the edge of a tattoo.
“You her girlfriend?” Agatha asked.
The girl blinked, surprised. “No, I—”
“Didn’t think so.” Agatha finally turned her head. Looked at her. Really looked. “Then maybe you should keep your hands to yourself.”
The girl scoffed. “Excuse me—”
But Rio cut in quickly, stepping back, barely, subtly, until her hip touched Agatha’s thigh.
“She’s press,” Rio said, breathless.
Agatha’s lips twitched. “you should leave.”
The girl straightened. “Im not going–”
Agatha took one small step forward, heels clicking against the concrete.
“Leave,” she repeated, cool and clear. “Now.”
There was a beat of silence. The girl glanced at Rio, as if waiting for backup. Rio said nothing. She didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.
And that was answer enough.
With a scoff and an eye roll, the brunette peeled herself away from the wall and slipped into the crowd, her heels stomping more than clicking.
Agatha turned back to Rio. One arm slid slowly possessively, around her waist, anchoring her in place like she belonged there.
“Press,” she said again, lips twitching. “Cute.”
Rio exhaled like she was already melting into it. Into her. Her shoulders dropped. Her spine relaxed.
Agatha leaned in, lips brushing Rio’s ear. “Were you trying to make me jealous?” she whispered.
Rio didn’t answer. But her silence said everything.
Agatha smiled against her skin. “You know better than that.”
Then she pulled back, just enough to meet Rio’s eyes again. Her thumb dragged along the bare skin beneath Rio’s shirt, slowly, just above the waistband her shorts.
“You want attention?” Agatha asked, voice low, dark with promise. “You’ll get it.”
She took her hand. No asking. Just fingers closing around Rio’s wrist and guiding her toward the center of the dance floor.
Rio followed. Of course she did.
But she hesitated as they reached the edge of the crowd, leaning in toward Agatha’s ear. “Agatha,” she said, voice tight. “There’s a lot people here.”
Agatha didn’t break stride. She turned her head just enough to brush her lips against Rio’s temple.
“It would be rude of me,” she purred, “not to dance with the birthday girl.”
The music hit like a wave, bass heavy, body first, all heat and hips and hands. It vibrated through the walls, soaked the air, wrapped around every movement like a second skin. Somewhere beneath the strobe and sweat, the beat shifted, and a reggaetón track pulsed through the speakers:
“Quería una movie, yo se la di… (She wanted a movie, I gave it to her) ”
Agatha moved with purpose, dragging Rio into the thick of it. Lights flashed over them, violet, pink, gold. Bodies blurred together. No one was looking. Everyone was.
“ Una guerra en la cama a lo COD… (A war in bed like COD)”
Agatha turned, pulled Rio flush against her, and began to move.
She didn’t grind. Not at first. She danced. Precisely. Controlled. Sensual in the way that made Rio visibly fight to keep her breath even.
“¿Es tu primera ve', baby? OMG, huh… (Is it your first time, baby? OMG, huh)”
Agatha’s hands skimmed her hips, her waist, the small of her back. She whispered things against her jaw, nothing legible over the music, but her lips lingered long enough to make Rio’s knees wobble.
Then she turned around and pressed her ass deliberately into Rio’s hips.
Rio choked on a breath.
“Nasty, como rico, le gusta lo caro, lo fino… (Nasty, like rich, she likes expensive, fine things)”
Agatha rolled her hips back, slow. Intentional. The crowd swallowed them whole, no one caring, no one stopping it, but Rio was already losing composure.
She was hard. Agatha could feel it. That thick, unmistakable heat pressed against her ass, twitching slightly every time her hips shifted.
“Cuando brinca, bendito… (When she jumps, blessed)”
She reached behind her, grabbed Rio’s wrist, and pulled her hand to rest on her hip. Then lower. Then lower still.
“Keep it there,” she murmured without turning. “Don’t move.”
“Una demonia, pa’ mí que es mi tipo… (A demon, I think she's my type)”
Rio obeyed. Breathing hard, lips parted, flushed and wide eyed in the strobe light.
Agatha let it drag out for another minute, maybe two. Until Rio’s hand was trembling where it gripped her waist. Until Agatha could feel just how much she wanted to be touched. To be taken.
“Su única fantasía sexual es ver cómo el dinero llueve… (Her only sexual fantasy is to see the money rain)”
Then Agatha spun around, close enough that their noses brushed.
“Bathroom,” she said. Voice sharp. Unnegotiable.
Rio nodded once, fast, desperate.
“Está cansá' de los hombre', quiere alguien que la eleve…(She's tired of men, she wants someone to lift her up)”
Agatha smirked. “Good girl.”
She led her by the wrist again, weaving through the crowd, past girls snapping selfies and someone lighting a joint, past a champagne tower and a booth spilling over with glitter.
They reached the hallway leading to the bathrooms. A bouncer stood there, but Agatha didn’t even break stride, she just gave him a look that said don’t fucking ask and pushed Rio into the single occupancy door just as someone else came stumbling out.
The moment it shut behind them, she locked it.
And turned.
Rio stood there, breathing hard. Hair damp with sweat. Her dick strained against the front of her pants, obvious now in the unforgiving light. Her hands hung at her sides like she didn’t know what to do with them.
Agatha leaned against the door. Crossed her arms.
“You were so cocky out there,” she said. “You looked like you’d forgotten who you belong to.”
“I didn’t,” Rio said, voice hoarse.
“No?” Agatha stepped forward. Slow. Deliberate. “Then why were you letting some stranger paw at you like that?”
“I wasn’t—”
“Shhh.” Agatha put a finger to Rio’s lips. “Don’t speak unless I tell you to.”
Rio swallowed hard and nodded.
Agatha’s eyes dropped to her cock, visibly twitching, desperate for friction, and back up again.
Agatha’s eyes dropped again, settling on the thick bulge pressing against Rio’s pants. Her mouth curled, smug, slow, cruel.
She stepped forward at last. One hand rose to cup Rio’s jaw, thumb brushing her flushed cheek with something almost tender. Almost.
“You’ve been hard since the second I touched you,” she said, soft like a confession. “Since the second I pulled you close.”
Her other hand trailed down Rio’s chest, slow enough to make her squirm. Down past her ribs, over her stomach, until she reached the waistband of her pants.
Agatha didn’t go under. Not yet.
She pressed her palm over the bulge instead, firm, claiming, the way you test a gift before unwrapping it. Rio bucked slightly at the contact, biting down hard on her lip to stay silent.
“Oh,” Agatha said mockingly. “That’s what I thought.”
She began to rub, slow circles through the fabric. Enough pressure to tease, not enough to satisfy. Rio’s hips jerked again despite herself.
“Sensitive tonight,” Agatha noted, her voice all silk and sin. “You get like this when you watch me dance?”
“Agatha—” Rio tried, voice cracking.
But Agatha squeezed, just once, and Rio nearly folded.
“You don't get to say my name like that unless you're begging.”
Her hand slid lower, fingers tracing the length of Rio’s cock through her pants. Teasing the tip with her thumb. Her mouth was barely an inch from Rio’s neck now, breath hot, lips brushing her skin.
“You were showing off for me, weren’t you?” she whispered. “All that swagger. Acting like you could handle me.”
Rio shivered, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Her hands fisted at her sides, white knuckled.
Agatha’s palm pressed harder, a single slow stroke over the clothed shaft. “But look at you now. One touch and you’re already shaking.”
She leaned in and kissed the corner of Rio’s mouth, fleeting. Barely there.
Then she pulled back, met her eyes.
“Take it out,” she said calmly.
Rio obeyed, hands fumbling slightly as she unzipped her pants and pulled herself free, long, thick, flushed dark with need.
Agatha hummed in approval, stepping close again, gaze locked on her cock but not touching. Not yet.
“Look at you,” she murmured. “Already aching. Just from dancing with me.”
The silence stretched.
Agatha’s hand finally moved, fingers grazing the length of Rio’s cock with maddening lightness. Not stroking, examining. Teasing. The barest brush of her nails along the underside, down to the base, then back up again.
Rio trembled.
Her thighs tensed. Her breath hitched. Her fists clenched at her sides, like she knew better than to beg. Yet.
Agatha smirked. “Already leaking,” she murmured, dragging her thumb through the sticky bead at the tip, watching it stretch. “Fucking pathetic.”
She brought her thumb to her lips. Licked it off, slowly. Lazily. Her tongue curling around the digit like she was savoring the taste of Rio’s desperation.
“You’d fall apart for me in a minute if I let you,” she said. “Wouldn’t you?”
Rio whimpered.
Agatha stepped closer, her body barely brushing Rio’s. Her mouth dipped near her ear. “You really are pathetic for me.”
Rio whimpered,barely audible.
“Did you get hard from the dancing?” Agatha asked “From all those sweaty little bodies grinding near us? Or was it just me baby?”
She didn't wait for an answer.
Her fingers wrapped around Rio’s cock, finally, finally, and gave it one slow stroke from base to tip. Rio’s knees buckled slightly.
“Color?” Agatha murmured, low in her ear.
“Green,” Rio gasped. “Please—Agatha—”
“I told you not to speak”
Rio whimpered but nodded, chest rising and falling with ragged effort.
“Good,” Agatha whispered. “You know the rules.”
She stroked her again, once. Twice. Agatha’s thumb teased the slit at the top, smearing precum over the flushed head. Then nothing. Her hand fell away like the loss of oxygen, and Rio let out a guttural, desperate sound that barely echoed over the beat of the music still thumping through the walls.
Agatha pressed her palm flat against Rio’s stomach. Held her there.
“You know what I could do right now?” she whispered, mouth brushing just behind her ear. “I could drop to my knees. Take this pretty cock in my mouth. Let you fuck my throat until you cry. Make you cum so hard your legs give out.”
Rio whimpered again, louder now. Her hips twitched forward instinctively.
Agatha chuckled. Cruel. Gentle. Loving, in her own way.
“But I’m not going to.”
Rio’s breath caught, like it had been punched out of her.
She leaned back just enough to see Rio’s face, flushed and stricken and desperate.
Agatha’s lips ghosted over her cheek. “You don’t get to cum tonight, not after the stunt you pulled out there.”
“You haven’t earned it,” she said. “ You don’t get to use my mouth like some free use fuck toy.”
Rio moaned, brokenly.
Agatha’s hand returned, gripping Rio’s cock—not to stroke. To hold. Possessive. Dominant. Like she owned it. Owned her.
“Look at you,” she whispered, her thumb dragging just under the swollen head. “You’re shaking. Leaking all over yourself. Like a needy little slut in heat.”
Her hand moved again, gripping Rio’s cock, not to stroke, just to hold it. Possessive. Dominant. Every inch of Rio’s body was thrumming with need now. Her cock throbbed in Agatha’s hand, so hard it hurt, and Agatha still didn’t move.
Her grip tightened slightly, just enough to make it ache.
“I want you to leave this bathroom dripping. Still hard. I want you to go back out there and smile, and dance, and pretend you’re fine. I want you to make small talk with girls who’ll never fuck you, while your cock throbs like it’s going to split open.”
“Agatha—”
“Ah, ah.” Another kiss to the corner of her mouth. Not tender, mocking. “What did I say?”
Rio swallowed. Her lashes fluttered. She nodded.
“That’s right.”
Agatha released her. Stepped back. Reached for a tissue, wiped her hand clean like nothing had happened.
She turned to the door. Paused. Looked back one last time.
“You’re going to keep it together,” she said, calm as anything. “If you make it, if you’re good, I’ll let you cum tonight. I’ll might even let you fuck me.”
She leaned in again, barely whispering now.
“Maybe I’ll even ride you until you cry.”
Rio’s knees nearly buckled again.
“But if you even think about touching yourself,” Agatha added, turning the lock with a click, “I’ll edge you for a week.”
She kissed her cheek.
“Be a good girl.”
And then she was gone, heels sharp on tile, the door swinging wide.
The club lights flooded in.
And Rio was left trembling, cock still hard, pulse in her throat, her entire body burning with the weight of Agatha’s promise.