clandestinemoments

[clandestinemoments]

She came for the tan. She left with emotional damage. Melissa Schemmenti doesn’t do devastating romance. So why the hell is she standing here barefoot, breathless, and thinking about a girl with a Fleetwood Mac playlist?

my current WIP. What do we think? Would you be interested in a continuation?

The Tide Between Us • Melissa Schemmenti x Original Female Character • Melissa Schemmenti wasn’t looking for connection. She came to Jersey to dogsit, drink cold beer, and maybe get a little sun. But then there’s Jules, too earnest, too pretty, too dangerous…and a summer that starts to unravel all the walls she’s built around her heart. this is a story about what happens when a kiss tastes like a promise and a woman like Melissa knows better than to believe in promises.

Rated M for future chapters.

People crave all sorts of things.

Love. Acceptance. Admiration. Money. Sex.

Personally, I favor the last one.

Money’s nice; pays the bills, buys a good bottle of red.

Admiration? Sure. I like when men and women stare at my ass in the grocery store. I’m not made of stone. But I’d rather they do more than look.

Acceptance? Eh. I’ve got friends who like me well enough. And if not these friends, I’d find other ones. That stuff’s a given if you know how to hold a conversation and bring a decent casserole. I don’t crave it.

Love?

Now that’s a fool’s game.

I’ve played it.

Lost bad.

I don’t believe in love anymore. I believe in tolerating someone long enough to share a mortgage or die first.

I’m not getting any younger. Hell, I’m past middle age. A public school teacher in Philly. Divorced. Broke it off with my last guy because he proposed, and I didn’t feel like lying about what I wanted. Rebounded with the fire chief, and that blew up faster than a meth lab in a thunderstorm.

So now here I am.

Barefoot in Jersey, dog-sitting, pretending I know how to relax.

And then…

There she was.

The Jersey sun didn’t play fair. It didn’t just shine, it cooked. The kind of hot that stuck to your neck and made every piece of clothing feel like a bad decision.

Melissa Schemmenti, red hair pinned up with a pair of sunglasses she definitely did not buy for UV protection, stood barefoot on the porch of her cousin’s beach house. A cold beer dripped condensation onto her hand.

She had earned this. Every damn bit of it. The school year had been a circus: budget cuts and a second-grade class that seemed personally offended by the concept of silence. Add to that the whole Gary debacle (“He proposed, can you believe that shit?”), a fling with Captain Robinson that went up in flames faster than a rookie on the wrong end of a firehose, and yeah. A solo summer in Jersey felt like God herself had finally tossed Melissa a bone.

“I better get a tan outta this,” she muttered, more to the dog asleep under her lounge chair than anyone else.

The dog, a squat little French bulldog named Frankie who had the energy of a baked potato, blinked at her and farted.

“Jesus Christ, Frankie.”

She took another sip.

Down on the beach, technically the beach behind her rental, Jules (Julianne) Warner was wrestling with her own version of a dream summer. Tote bag full of paperbacks, sunscreen already streaked across her nose, and an oversized towel she’d claimed with territorial aggression. She wasn’t a tourist. Not exactly. Jules had been coming here since she was a kid, but it was the first summer she’d booked a place for herself. No obligations.

Just waves, books, and iced coffee that didn’t taste like burnt socks.

She spotted the redhead first, up on the porch next door with a beer and a presence, like she belonged in a leather jacket, not linen capris. She looked like someone who’d been through some shit and came out the other side with opinions. She looked like a woman who smoked at weddings, cried at movies she’d seen fifteen times, and made pasta with her bare hands.

She looked like trouble. The good kind.

And trouble, well, Jules had been a little lonely lately.

Melissa had noticed her too. Mostly because Frankie kept wandering to the edge of the property and barking in Jules’ direction like he was personally offended by her beach umbrella. The first time Jules waved, Melissa ignored it. The second time, she nodded. The third time?

She called down, “You bribin’ my dog with snacks or is he just dramatic?”

Jules shaded her eyes with a hand and grinned. “He likes my taste in music, apparently.”

“Oh yeah? You playin’ Sinatra or some shit?”

“Fleetwood.”

Melissa stood. “Acceptable.”

She stepped off the porch with a slow stretch, beer still in hand, and made her way across the sand-dusted path separating the two properties. Frankie waddled after her with all the urgency of a half-deflated beach ball. She didn’t rush. Melissa never did unless it involved a fire drill or a good sale on marinara ingredients. But something about the woman on the beach towel pulled at her curiosity like a loose thread on one of her cardigans she refused to give up.

Jules sat up as Melissa approached, brushing sand off her legs.

“I like your taste, kid,” Melissa said, nodding toward the phone where Stevie Nicks was crooning through a portable speaker. “Not enough people your age know good music when they hear it.”

Jules gave her a mock-offended look. “Wow. You calling me young or uncultured?”

Melissa smirked. “Can’t it be both?”

Jules laughed, and Melissa liked the sound of it more than she cared to admit. It was easy. Natural. Not the kind of forced politeness she had to use with nosy neighbors or overly familiar PTA moms.

“Melissa,” she said, extending a hand after a beat.

“Jules,” she replied, slipping her fingers into hers. Her grip was firm. Strong. Melissa clocked the way Jules’ eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary and filed it away without saying a word.

She dropped down into the sand beside Frankie, who immediately rolled onto his back like he’d earned the right to be doted on.

“Frenchie?” Jules asked, reaching to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“Yeah, he’s my cousin’s. I’m just the sucker who agreed to babysit while she’s off in Naples with her latest ‘business opportunity.’”

“Is that what we’re calling hot guys in linen shirts now?” Jules teased.

Melissa barked a laugh, sharp, warm, real. “You catch on quick. Jersey girls usually do.”

Jules wasn’t from Jersey, but she wasn’t about to correct her. Melissa didn’t seem like the kind of woman who liked being interrupted when she was right, even when she wasn’t.

Melissa leaned back on her hands, letting the sun warm her face.

“So,” she said casually, “you renting here for the whole summer or just passing through?”

Jules nodded. “Yeah. First summer on my own. Needed a break from everything.”

“Let me guess,” Melissa said, turning to glance at her, “bad breakup, crappy job, or family drama?”

“Two out of three.”

“Oof. Which two?”

Jules gave her a look. “If I tell you, will you judge me?”

“I’m Italian. I judge everyone. But I do it with love.”

Jules laughed again and looked out at the ocean. “Breakup. Family. The job’s fine, if soul-sucking counts as fine.”

Melissa nodded like she understood exactly what she meant. And she did. There was a comfort in that, in the silence that followed, where neither of them felt the need to fill the space with small talk. Just the hum of Fleetwood Mac, the hiss of waves, and the occasional grunt from Frankie as he dreamed dog things.

After a while, Melissa stood.

“Well,” she said, brushing sand from her knees, “I should probably go. I was about to dog-proof the guest room so Frankie doesn’t pee in there again.”

Jules stood too, slightly reluctant. “I could help. I’ve been told I’m excellent at spotting suspicious dog behavior.”

Melissa squinted at her, amused. “You trying to get invited over already? We just met.”

“Maybe I’m just neighborly.”

She tilted her head. “You’re something, alright.”

And then, because she didn’t want to give away too much too fast, she added, “You coming to the bonfire tomorrow night? Some of the locals throw one every weekend.”

Jules hesitated. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“You should. It’s not awful. And they usually let the music go past midnight before the cops pretend to care.”

“You inviting me?” Jules asked, raising a brow.

Melissa shrugged. “It’s my way of saying I’ll be there. And if I see you, cool. If not, I’ll assume you got eaten by a beach crab.”

“Charming.”

“I try.”

With that, Melissa turned and headed back toward her porch, Frankie waddling loyally behind her.

Jules watched her go. The sway of her walk, the casual confidence, the way she didn’t look back.

She knew then. Something told her. She was in trouble.

The good kind.

Melissa peeled off her sandals and stepped into the beach house, letting the cool air from the window unit kiss her sun-warmed skin. She set her beer on the kitchen counter, staring out the window, and caught sight of Jules still standing there, brushing her fingers through wind-tangled hair.

Mostly straight. That’s what she’d said once. Mostly.

The thought snagged in Melissa’s mind like a loose thread she couldn’t quite snip. She scoffed at herself and grabbed a cold bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge, like she hadn’t been mentally taking stock of Jules’ smile for the last half hour, or the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed. Or the lingering warmth from their handshake.

“God help me,” she muttered to Frankie, who was now attempting to nap under the kitchen table, emitting small, satisfied grunts.

The dog snorted, unimpressed, as if to say, You’re the one who agreed to dog-sit, not me.

Melissa cracked the bottle open and took a long swig, the fizzy water doing little to cool the unexpected heat rising in her. She leaned against the counter, still gazing out at the strip of sand where Jules had been sitting. The truth was, Jules was exactly the kind of trouble Melissa usually steered clear of. Too earnest, too open, probably believed in things like “soulmates” and “forever.” Melissa had been there, done that, got the divorce papers to prove it.

But then there was that laugh: easy, genuine. And the way Jules had met her gaze, no pretenses, just a quiet, confident assessment. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at Melissa like that, like she was something interesting, something worth figuring out. Usually, they saw the Philly teacher, the Italian broad with a short fuse, the one who probably knew a guy for anything you needed. Not the woman who secretly collected vintage romance novels or still got a little thrill from a good thunderstorm.

She remembered the slight hesitation in Jules’s eyes when she’d asked about the bonfire. A flicker of uncertainty that Melissa, against her better judgment, found herself wanting to erase. She hadn’t been inviting her, not really. Just stating a fact. A casual suggestion, nothing more. But the thought of Jules actually showing up, it made a little knot of anticipation tighten in Melissa’s gut.

Melissa pushed off the counter and started toward the guest room, Frankie stirring reluctantly from his slumber to follow. She’d better get this dog-proofing done. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight, and it wasn’t just because of a neurotic French bulldog.

Tomorrow’s bonfire couldn’t come soon enough. The air was already thick with possibility, and Melissa, despite herself, was starting to feel a familiar, dangerous flutter she’d sworn off years ago. A flutter that felt a lot like a challenge. And Melissa Schemmenti always loved a good challenge.

The next evening, the bonfire roared to life with an almost ceremonial crackle, a beacon against the deepening twilight. The air, still thick with the day’s heat, now carried the salty tang of the ocean mixed with the sweet, smoky scent of burning driftwood. Melissa arrived later than most, a six-pack of Yuengling in a cooler slung over her shoulder, Frankie trotting dutifully beside her, occasionally straining at his leash to sniff at a discarded hot dog bun.

She scanned the crowd, a mix of seasoned locals with weathered faces and summer renters trying a little too hard to blend in. Her gaze snagged on a familiar figure near the water's edge, silhouetted against the fiery glow. Jules. She was wearing a simple sundress, her hair catching the orange light like spun copper. Even from a distance, Melissa could see the way she moved, a relaxed grace that somehow made Melissa feel both a little rough around the edges and intensely drawn to her.

Melissa made her way through the throng, offering curt nods and mumbled greetings to the few faces she recognized. She found a spot a respectful distance from the main hubbub, setting down her cooler. Frankie, bless his lazy heart, immediately collapsed in the sand, content to observe the chaos.

Jules, meanwhile, had been trying to appear nonchalant. She’d told herself she was just here for the atmosphere, the sound of the waves, the casual escape. But every few minutes, her eyes had darted toward the path, a small, nervous anticipation fluttering in her chest. When she finally saw Melissa, a genuine smile bloomed on her face, unbidden and bright.

She walked over, the sand cool between her toes. “Thought you got eaten by a beach crab,” Jules said, her voice teasing, but with an underlying warmth that Melissa didn't miss.

Melissa snorted, popping open a beer. “Nah. Took me a while to find a leash long enough to hold this one back.” She nudged Frankie with her foot, who only let out a soft groan of contentment. “You look… not awful.”

Jules laughed, a sound like wind chimes. “Thanks, Melissa. You clean up pretty good yourself. Less… dog-sitter chic.”

Melissa just grunted, taking a long swig of her beer. “Don’t get used to it. This linen thing is itchy.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the sounds of the bonfire: laughter, music, the steady roar of the ocean, swirling around them. Jules took a deep breath, letting the moment sink in. “It’s nice out here,” she said, almost to herself.

“Yeah, it’s alright,” Melissa conceded, looking at the flickering flames. “Beats grading papers, that’s for sure.”

A lull in the music, and then someone cranked up a classic rock anthem; something loud and unapologetic. Melissa rolled her eyes, but a small smile played on her lips. “What, no Fleetwood Mac?” she asked, turning to Jules.

Jules shook her head. “Different crowd. This is more of a ‘guy with a guitar singing bad covers’ kind of vibe.”

“I can appreciate a bad cover if the beer’s cold enough,” Melissa said, offering Jules a bottle. Their fingers brushed, and this time, the spark felt undeniable, a current humming beneath the surface. Jules’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and Melissa quickly looked away, clearing her throat.

As the night wore on, the initial awkwardness dissolved into easy conversation. They talked about everything and nothing: childhood summers, awful roommates, the unbearable lightness of being a public school teacher. Melissa found herself opening up more than she intended, sharing anecdotes about her eccentric family, the daily absurdities of her classroom, and even, hesitantly, a little about the quiet ache of her recent disappointments. Jules listened with genuine interest, asking questions that felt thoughtful and real, not just polite. She had a way of looking at Melissa that made her feel seen, truly seen, for the first time in a long time.

Jules, in turn, spoke of her own life: the demanding corporate job that left her feeling empty, the subtle pressures of a family that always meant well but rarely understood, the recent breakup that had left her feeling adrift. Melissa, surprisingly, found herself empathetic. She recognized the weariness in Jules’s eyes, the quiet yearning for something more. She even offered unsolicited advice, delivered with her usual bluntness, about quitting that “soul-sucking” job. “Life’s too short to spend it making rich people richer,” Melissa declared, gesturing with her beer bottle. “Go make something with your hands, kid. Or at least find a job that doesn’t make you wanna punch a wall.”

Jules just laughed, a soft, delighted sound. “You know, that’s surprisingly good advice, Melissa.”

“I’m full of it,” Melissa deadpanned. “Don’t get used to it.”

Hours melted away. The bonfire dwindled to glowing embers, the music softened to a low hum, and the crowd thinned out. Eventually, it was just them, the quiet lapping of the waves, and the distant murmur of conversation from the few remaining stragglers. Frankie, ever the opportunist, had fallen asleep with his head in Jules’s lap.

Melissa shifted, feeling the subtle pull of tiredness, but a stronger pull to just stay. “Looks like it’s just us, kid,” she murmured, her voice a little rougher than usual.

Jules’s eyes met hers in the dim light, and something electric passed between them. The air seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken possibility. “Looks like it,” Jules whispered, her gaze dropping to Melissa’s lips, then back up to her eyes.

Melissa’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm she hadn’t felt in years. She could feel the beer in her system, loosening her inhibitions, but it wasn't just the alcohol. It was Jules. The way she looked at her, the way she listened, the quiet understanding in her eyes. It was dangerous. It was exactly what Melissa had sworn off.

Jules leaned closer, her breath warm against Melissa’s cheek, smelling faintly of salt and something sweet, like the peach iced tea she’d been nursing. “You know,” Jules began, her voice barely a murmur, “you’re not exactly what I expected from a Jersey summer.”

“Oh yeah?” Melissa countered, her own voice hoarse, her eyes locked on Jules’s mouth. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just… more,” Jules breathed, and then her hand came up, gently cupping Melissa’s jaw. Her thumb brushed over Melissa’s cheekbone, a light, almost hesitant touch that sent shivers down Melissa’s spine.

And then Jules leaned in, slowly, giving Melissa every opportunity to pull away. But Melissa didn’t. Couldn’t. The moment stretched, agonizing and exhilarating, until their lips finally met.

It was a soft kiss at first, tentative, a question. Then, as Melissa’s own hand came up to cup Jules’s neck, pulling her closer, it deepened. Jules’s mouth was soft, pliant, tasting of beer and something uniquely her own. Melissa angled her head, a low groan escaping her as Jules responded with an eager warmth, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Melissa’s neck. The kiss grew more urgent, more heated, a desperate dance of lips and tongues, an unspoken hunger unleashed. Melissa’s body hummed with a forgotten longing, a raw, undeniable desire that took her breath away. She pressed into Jules, felt the soft give of her body, the subtle curve of her hip against Melissa’s own. Every nerve ending was alive, buzzing with the sheer, intoxicating pleasure of it.

But then, just as the kiss grew more demanding, as Jules’s hand slid lower, brushing against Melissa’s waist, a jolt of ice water shot through Melissa. Oh, fuck. What am I doing?

It was too much, too fast, too real. This was the kind of thing that led to feelings, to complications, to getting hurt. This was the exact kind of devastating romance that she’d spent years building walls against. The kind that promised everything and delivered heartbreak.

Melissa abruptly pulled back, breaking the kiss with a gasp. Her chest was heaving, her eyes wide, a sudden coldness settling over her. Jules’s eyes, dazed and heavy-lidded, opened slowly, a question forming on her lips.

“Whoa, okay, easy there, kid,” Melissa said, her voice rough, her heart still hammering like a drum against her ribs. She pushed herself up, suddenly needing space, needing air. “It’s… it’s late. And I got this one to worry about.” She gestured vaguely at Frankie, who was still blissfully asleep.

Jules’s expression shifted, hurt flickering in her eyes, though she quickly tried to mask it. “Right,” she said, her voice quiet, a little shaky. “Frankie.”

Melissa avoided her gaze, already backing away. “Yeah. And I gotta… dog-proof that guest room. Still. Before he wrecks the place.” It was a flimsy excuse, and they both knew it.

“Melissa, wait,” Jules started, but Melissa was already turning, her movements stiff, almost panicked.

“Goodnight, Jules,” she mumbled, not looking back, already walking away, the sand gritty beneath her bare feet. She could feel Jules’s eyes on her, burning into her back, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

She walked away from the dying embers of the bonfire, from the lingering scent of smoke and the ghost of Jules’s kiss on her lips. She walked away from the danger, from the dizzying possibility, from the unsettling realization that for a moment, just for a moment, she had wanted to forget every single lesson she’d ever learned about love.

Tomorrow, she’d pretend it hadn’t happened. She’d pretend she hadn’t felt that dizzying rush, that undeniable pull. She had to. Because Melissa Schemmenti didn’t do devastating romance. Not anymore.

to be continued…?

[clandestinemoments]

These are my little brain thoughts. I’m not saying Melissa would do this, I’m saying she could, and in my head, she absolutely does :)

18+ MDNI!

🔥 when she’s in charge (and loving it)

• Melissa’s got that confident older woman who knows what she wants and exactly how to get it energy. When she’s in the mood to take the lead? You’ll know it before she even touches you. It’s in the smirk. The way she pats her thigh and says, “C’mere.” The way her voice drops and gets that rough and low edge like she’s daring you not to listen.

• She loves using her hands. The rings stay on. One around your throat while the other is working you over like she’s got a quota to meet. She’s got a thing for watching you fall apart while she stays maddeningly calm, until you say her name just right. Then it’s over.

• Very vocal. “Yeah? You like that?” “Look at you, baby, makin’ a mess on my fuckin’ thigh. That’s my good girl.” It’s gruff and filthy and makes your stomach drop in the best way.

• Straps? Oh yeah. She loves her strap. She’s the type to keep it in a locked drawer under the bed with some neatly folded harnesses. Nothing flashy. Just well-used, well-loved, and chosen for function. The moment she slides it on, she’s locked in.

• She’s the kind of top who gets possessive. Aftercare is her whispering in your ear while she rubs your back, “You’re mine. You get that? Nobody else touches you like this.” Followed by pizza in bed and a little teasing about how wrecked you look.

🥺 when she lets you take over (rare, but oh so rewarding)

• Okay, it doesn’t happen as often, but when it does? It’s because she needs it. Usually after a long, stressful week, maybe something went sideways at school or in her family. She walks in all quiet and tense and just looks at you like she doesn’t wanna be tough tonight.

• She won’t outright ask. Melissa’s not great with vulnerability. But she’ll say something like “You gonna take care of me tonight, baby?” and then lean into your touch like she’s melting.

• She gets squirmy when she’s not in control, blushes easy, gets flustered if you tease her. But she adores praise. The second you start telling her she’s doing so well, or how good she looks spread out for you? Her brain short-circuits.

• She likes being guided. You put her hands where you want them, and she’ll listen. You tell her not to move, and she’ll try, but she might break just to get punished. She’s still got that brat streak.

• Moans into your neck and clutches the sheets when you’re going down on her. Like, full-body shaking, whimpering your name, whispering “Please, don’t stop. Please.” It’ll break you in half.

• After? She pulls you into her chest, still kinda dazed, murmurs, “Don’t let me do that too often, huh? Might get used to it.” But you can tell it meant everything.

💋 Melissa-style dates

• Old-School Italian Restaurant: red vinyl booths, dim lighting, Dean Martin playing. She knows the owner. The waiter calls her “bella.” She orders for you without asking and somehow it’s exactly what you wanted. After dinner, she kisses you against the brick wall outside and calls you “her girl.”

• Dive Bar Karaoke: She drags you out for a night of cheap beer and sings “Cherry Bomb” like she’s still twenty. She dedicates it to you with a wink and somehow makes it hot. Later, she pushes you into the bathroom and kisses you like the place isn’t covered in questionable graffiti.

• Target Practice & Wine: Yes. Shooting range date. She brings her own ear protection. Shows you how to hold a pistol with her arms around you. Then it’s back to her place for a glass of red and a “slow unwind.” (Spoiler: there’s nothing slow about it.)

• Homebody Date: She shows up with groceries, cooks something family-recognized (but better because she made it), and insists you wear one of her old high school shirts. There’s wine. There’s cuddling. There’s definitely sex on the couch before the pasta even finishes boiling.

• Surprise Picnic in Her Trunk: She opens the back of her car like ta-da, and there’s a blanket, wine, meat and cheese, and one suspiciously long lighter. It’s part date, part stakeout. You end up on her lap half-laughing, half-moaning while she tells you stories about her wild twenties. You will get caught fooling around outside and she will not care.

🥵 Sex After a Fight (aka “You done screamin’? Good. Now come here.”)

• Fights with Melissa aren’t quiet. She’s Sicilian, she’s passionate, and she doesn’t back down. If it’s a big one, there’s pacing, gesturing, a slammed cabinet or two. She says things with a fire she doesn’t always mean. But once the storm passes and the hurt hangs in the air, she’s the first one to touch. A firm grip on your waist, a sharp look softened by guilt.

“Yell at me all you want, baby. Just don’t walk away from me.”

• The sex that follows is intense. Like she’s trying to apologize with every bite, every grip, every thrust. She doesn’t say sorry with words unless it’s serious, but her mouth on you? That’s where she means it. Her tone’s rougher, like she’s mad at herself and taking it out on your thighs.

One hand locked in your hair, the other holding your hip like it’s the only stable thing in the room. “You drivin’ me nuts, but you’re mine. Still mine.”

• She loves when you fight back a little in bed afterward, scratches on her back, teeth on her collarbone. It tells her you’re still in it, still here. That you still want her even after all that yelling.

• The afterglow is quiet. She pulls you into her chest and holds on too tight. Doesn’t talk much. Just kisses your forehead and tucks her chin over your head like nothing else in the world exists except the two of you and that stubborn love that won’t quit.

👀 Semi-Public Tension (aka “Try to behave, I dare you.”)

• Melissa is dangerous with eye contact. Especially across a crowded room, whether it’s a school function, a dinner with her sisters, or waiting in line at Wawa. One lingering look and a slow drag of her teeth across her bottom lip and suddenly you’re sweating.

• She loves teasing you in public. Just a hand on your lower back that dips too low. A whispered “You wearin’ those panties I like?” while you’re trying to order coffee. She doesn’t need to touch you. One sentence and you’re shifting in your seat.

• Favorite move? Sitting close in a booth and casually placing her hand between your thighs under the table while still sipping her drink and chatting like she’s doing nothing. Her voice doesn’t change. But her fingers do.

“Shh. Be good. We’re in public, baby. Don’t wanna make a scene, do you?”

• And when you do get to the car? She throws the seat back, climbs on top of you, and rides you like the whole block doesn’t exist. The windows fogged. She only stops when she hears herself moan your name like it’s a prayer.

🥴 Possessive Melissa (aka “That’s mine. End of story.”)

• Melissa isn’t jealous, she’s possessive. She trusts you, but she still glares daggers at anyone who gets too friendly. She’ll casually drape her arm over your shoulder mid-conversation with someone else and drop something like:

“You makin’ new friends, babe? Cute. But don’t forget who’s takin’ you home tonight.”

• In bed, she marks you. Hickeys just low enough on your neck to be visible if you tilt your head. Scratches on your hips. Lipstick smudges from her kisses where they’ll last.

“Look at you. All messed up for me. Gonna walk around all day knowin’ who did that?”

• And God help you if she hears someone flirt with you. The sex that night? Rough, claiming, borderline feral. She pushes you face-first into the sheets and growls, “Whose are you?” until your voice cracks saying her name.

• But afterward, when your legs are jelly and her hands are smoothing your hair, she’ll whisper it again, “Mine. My girl. Always.” Just to hear you say it back.

🧨 Dangerous Domestic (aka “This is love, Philly-style.”)

• Melissa’s idea of domesticity isn’t soft-focus. it’s real. She’s yelling about burnt garlic bread while you’re wearing one of her flannels and dancing barefoot in her kitchen. She’ll smack your butt with a dish towel and then kiss your neck while stirring sauce.

• She’s not afraid to get messy. flour on her shirt, sauce on her cheek, your lip between her teeth by the time the water boils. Sometimes the kitchen gets too hot and she just says, “To hell with dinner,” and lifts you onto the counter like you weigh nothing.

• Sex in the kitchen? Regular event. Sex on the couch mid-movie? Absolutely. She’s the kind to say “This scene’s boring,” just before pushing your legs open and making you forget what movie it was.

• She takes care of you with a sharp tongue and a warm heart. If you’re sick? She’s bringing soup, fluffing your pillow, and growling “Don’t even think about gettin’ up, I got it.”

[clandestinemoments]

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. 18+ ONLY. THE CONTENT ON THIS BLOG IS GROWN, NASTY, AND NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS IF YOU’RE UNDER 18. IF YOU LIE ABOUT YOUR AGE, I HOPE YOUR WIFI STOPS WORKING MID-FIC. DO NOT FOLLOW, READ, OR LURK IF YOU ARE A MINOR!!

•••••••••••RULES & GUIDELINES •••••••••••

Melissa Schemmenti💋

💋Sunday Sauce and Secrets: After your grandfather’s death, Sunday dinners get messy when your secret with Nonna’s best friend, Melissa, threatens to come out

💋that’s my girl: Big mouth. Big attitude. Even bigger need. Melissa Schemmenti might boss everyone else around, but behind closed doors? She’s all yours

💋you can fall apart here: she cooks, she consoles, she ruins you in bed. A rough night turns into something softer, hotter, and wholly hers

💋Just For You: Melissa’s had a long day, and you’ve spent every minute of it testing her patience. Now she’s ready to collect. And you’re more than ready to be claimed.

💋Melissa Schemmenti After Dark: My spicy headcanons

🖤 I write anonymously on this blog.

If you must call me something, make it “A” for Anonymous.

ask box is open!! No DMs!

[clandestinemoments]

Just For You.• Melissa Schemmenti x F!Reader • Melissa’s had a long day, and you’ve spent every minute of it testing her patience. Now she’s ready to collect. And you’re more than ready to be claimed.

18+ MDNI!!

You don’t even make it to the bed.

Melissa slams the front door shut with one hand and pushes you up against the wall with the other, her mouth already hot on your neck like she’s been starving for it all day. Which, judging by the way she bites down right under your ear, she has.

“You’ve been drivin’ me up a goddamn wall,” she growls, grinding her hips into yours. You can feel the strap already, thick and strapped tight, ready to ruin you. “All day. Actin’ sweet. Bein’ cute. You knew exactly what you were doin’.”

“Melissa,” you gasp, breathless.

“Don’t ‘Melissa’ me,” she snaps, grinning against your skin. “You wore that fuckin’ skirt on purpose. Knew it was short. Knew I’d look.”

You had hoped she’d look. You just didn’t think it’d lead to being pinned to the wall with Melissa’s hand already sliding up your thigh.

“I noticed, sweetheart,” she murmurs, dragging your skirt up with one firm tug. “Oh, and look at that. These barely count as panties.”

You squeak as she cups you through the fabric. She smirks when she feels how wet you already are.

“Jesus. Drippin’ for me? Don’t even gotta try.” Her lips brush your ear. “You want me to fuck you right here?”

You nod, breath catching. “Please.”

Melissa pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and hungry. “Nah. You don’t get wall sex till you earn it.”

You let out a whimper and she laughs, low and indulgent, before grabbing your wrist and dragging you down the hallway.

She pushes you onto the bed and yanks your panties down in one practiced motion, tossing them somewhere near the dresser, Her eyes never leave you.

Melissa strips fast. Tank top. Bra. Pants. Gone. She’s already wearing the harness, a thick strap with a slick sheen at the tip.

“Feel that?” she purrs, crawling over you, dragging the length along your inner thigh. “This one’s just for you.”

Your eyes flutter. “God, please.”

“Oh, I got you, baby. Don’t worry. You want me to wreck you, huh?”

You nod, desperate.

She doesn’t wait. She pushes in all at once, hips snapping forward like she’s been waiting on this all damn day.

You cry out, grabbing at the sheets, thighs already shaking.

Melissa groans, hands gripping your hips like she owns every inch of you. “Fuck. You take it so good. This pretty pussy was made for me.”

She pulls back slow, then slams into you hard, again and again, her pace ruthless, relentless.

You’re babbling now. Her name. Curses. Pleas. It all spills out and she eats it up like it feeds her.

“Yeah, that’s it. Be loud. Let the neighbors know who’s fuckin’ you like this.”

You arch up, eyes rolling when her palm comes down hard on your ass.

“Melissa!”

She chuckles. “Too much? Didn’t think so.”

In one swift move, she flips you onto your stomach, pulls your hips up, and slams into you again, even deeper.

“Goddamn,” she groans. “So fuckin’ tight. So wet. You like it like this, don’t you? Bent over for me, takin’ every inch.”

You sob into the pillow, not from pain, but from the overwhelming bliss tearing through your body.

She slows her thrusts just enough to reach around and rub your clit, her touch confident and practiced.

“Come on, baby,” she murmurs, leaning over your back, pressing kisses to your shoulder even as she ruins you. “Be good. Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter.

Your body shakes, thighs trembling, a moan ripping from your throat so loud it echoes.

Melissa doesn’t stop. She keeps going, working your clit while you ride the line between too much and not enough. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Of course she does.

When she finally slows, she presses soft kisses to your neck, her voice rough and warm in your ear.

“That’s my girl. Took it all, huh?”

You nod, boneless and wrecked, facedown on the mattress.

Melissa chuckles, slips out, unbuckles the strap and tosses it to the side. Then she curls up behind you, wrapping her arms around your body and pulling you to her chest.

She strokes your hair, kisses your cheek.

“Next time,” she whispers, voice still thick with heat, “you’re gonna ride me.”

You hum. “That a threat?”

“Nah, sweetheart,” she grins, smug and satisfied. “That’s a promise.”

[clandestinemoments]

you can fall apart here.• Melissa Schemmenti x F!Reader • she cooks, she consoles, she ruins you in bed. A rough night turns into something softer, hotter, and wholly hers.

18+ MDNI!!

The food had gone cold on your plate.

Not that you noticed. You were too busy trying not to cry in Melissa Schemmenti’s dining room. You’d said yes to dinner out of politeness, not thinking she’d actually follow through. Definitely not expecting her to cook. But here you were, in her South Philly home, drowning in the weight of your own silence and the scent of garlic and marinara.

“You gonna eat or just stare it into therapy?” she asked, voice rough and teasing, but not unkind.

You cracked a laugh, but it was thin and broke halfway out of your chest. “Not really hungry.”

“Yeah. I figured,” she said, leaning back in her chair. Her lips pressed into a line as she studied you. “You been movin’ like a ghost lately. Thought maybe dinner would remind you you’re still alive.”

You blinked, startled. “You noticed?”

Melissa raised an eyebrow. “Course I did. I ain’t blind. You walk around like you’re carryin’ the whole damn city on your back.”

The words cracked something in you. Not loudly. Just the quiet kind of shatter. The kind that doesn’t make a mess right away but leaves everything different.

“I just…” you started, swallowing hard. “It’s been too much. I don’t really talk about it. I don’t think anyone would really get it.”

She stood up slow, walked around the table, then leaned against the edge of it beside you. Arms crossed. Watching.

“Maybe not everyone would. But I would. I see you.”

Your eyes met hers. Her voice was low now, like the hum of an old record playing in another room.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like? Feeling like the whole world’s talkin’ but nobody’s listenin’? Like you could vanish and the only thing anyone’d notice is their coffee orders got screwed up?”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.

Melissa stepped in closer and knelt, leveling with you. Her eyes were green, sharp, and soft underneath. They held yours without blinking.

“You got somebody now,” she said. “You hear me?”

You nodded, lips trembling. “I hear you.”

“Good.” Then softer, “Because I like you. And I ain’t exactly known for sayin’ things I don’t mean.”

Your breath caught.

The way she touched your hand then wasn’t just comfort. It wasn’t just concern. It was intent. Her fingers slid along your knuckles, firm and sure.

The kiss came slow, like a question asked in a language you barely remembered but always knew. She gave you time to stop her. Time to pull back. You didn’t. You met her halfway, hands finding her waist, hers cradling your jaw.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was real. Like the moment you finally exhaled after holding your breath too damn long.

When she pulled back, her lips brushed yours as she spoke. “Still not hungry?”

“Only for you,” you said, and her grin turned downright wicked.

“Atta girl.”

Melissa’s bedroom was all warm shadows and the lazy creak of the old fan overhead. The walls held stories, pictures, memories, years of living. But right now, the only story she was telling was the one she was writing on your skin.

You were already bare beneath her. She was taking her time with it. Like a woman who’d waited long enough and knew how to make waiting worth it. Waiting for you.

She ran her hand down your side, slow and sure. Her rings were cool against the heat of your skin. Her voice, that scratchy, sultry alto, curled against your ear.

“Still thinkin’ you’re alone, huh?” she murmured, mouth just under your jaw, that low Philly growl rumbling in her chest.

You shook your head, breath catching. “Not with you here. Never again.”

“Damn right.” She pulled back just enough to look at you. Her eyes gleamed with heat and something steadier, quieter. A small, satisfied smile played on her lips before she sank her teeth gently into your neck.

Her blunt teeth grazed your pulse point, followed by the flick of her tongue. It was a promise and a threat. You shivered, a raw sound catching in your throat”

“You’re mine tonight, you hear me? Every last inch of you.”

Her hand slid lower, palm cupping the swell of your hip. Her thumb pressed in just enough to anchor you as she pulled you against her. Skin to skin now. The heat between you immediate and overwhelming. The rough denim of her jeans was a tantalizing drag along your inner thigh.

The way she looked at you made your breath stutter. A slow, possessive scan from your flushed face to your trembling legs. Like she was savoring it. Every gasp. Every little beg. Like she wasn’t in a rush, because she already had you.

Her fingers traced over your ribs, your stomach, your thigh. Not quite where you needed her, just teasing. Just claiming. Her lips trailed a wet, scorching path along your collarbone, then lower, lingering at your chest.

You arched into her, a soft gasp escaping when her mouth closed around your nipple. Warm and wet, just rough enough. Her tongue flicked at the peak until it stood hard and aching. A delicious friction that sent a jolt straight to your core.

She hummed, pleased. A low sound that vibrated through you. Then she did it again, her voice low against your skin.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let go for me. Just for me.”

And then her hand was between your thighs, fingers brushing the slick heat of you. A whimper tore from your throat. You were already soaked for her.

“Christ on a cracker,” she muttered, grinning with that mix of fire and reverence. Her eyes were dark with hunger as she looked down at your slick, open readiness. “You really were hungry, huh? Good.”

You moaned at the feel of her fingers. Rough, knowing, and sure. Sliding through you. She didn’t ask what you wanted. She already knew. And she was gonna give it to you the way she wanted.

One finger slid in slow, parting you with a firm, deliberate pressure. She watched you the whole time, eyes locked on yours. You felt the stretch, the intimate give, and your hips instinctively lifted, begging for more.

“Look at you. So damn pretty like this. All open for me.”

You whimpered, your hips rising again. She gave it to you. Another finger, curling just right, hitting that exquisite spot that made your whole body clench. The heel of her hand pressed in that perfect rhythm, grinding slow. Coaxing the tension tighter and tighter.

Her mouth didn’t stop. She kissed you again, deep and hot. Her tongue swept into your mouth, matching the rhythm of her fingers. You were breathing her name like a prayer.

“Melissa… God… don’t stop. Please.”

“Not plannin’ on it, smartass,” she rasped. Her voice was rough with want, full of command. “I want you to fall apart for me. Right here. Right now. Show me.”

And you did.

The world narrowed to her touch, her voice, the scent of her skin. The pressure built, coiling tight in your belly until it snapped like a live wire. Your body arched, a loud, ragged cry tearing out of you. She held you through it, her grip firm on your hip, her hand relentless as the orgasm tore through you.

Her voice was in your ear the whole time, whispering low praise, gruff and tender.

“That’s it. There you go. Good girl.”

She didn’t stop until your last shiver had faded. Then she finally stilled her hand and kissed you slow, deep, grounding. Her tongue traced your lips, tasting your release.

You were breathless. Wrapped in her arms like a shield. Or maybe like a cage she’d built just for you. The air around you smelled like sex and her perfume and something that felt like safety.

“You good, baby?” she asked, brushing a hand through your hair. Her touch was gentle, but her eyes burned with that same fierce heat from before.

You nodded, dazed and glowing, your cheek pressed to her shoulder. “More than good. More than I ever thought I could be.”

Melissa leaned back with a crooked smile, her fingers tracing your jaw. Her thumb brushed your lips, still swollen from her kiss.

“Good. Because I’m not done with you yet. Not by a long shot.”

[clandestinemoments]

that’s my girl • Melissa Schemmenti x F!Reader • Big mouth. Big attitude. Even bigger need. Melissa Schemmenti might boss everyone else around, but behind closed doors? She’s all yours.

18+ MDNI!

She storms through the front door, slamming it behind her. She shrugs off her coat, her hair a little windblown, that signature fire in her eyes as if she just finished chewing out a vendor for overcharging her on printer paper.

Melissa Schemmenti, the immovable force of Abbott Elementary. No one tells her what to do. No one pushes her around. She runs on coffee, spite, and an ungodly amount of moxie.

Except when she’s with you.

You see it right away, underneath all that armor: the first flicker of something softer. She closes the door and leans against it with a sigh she only lets out when she feels safe. Her shoulders sag just enough. Her voice is quieter.

“Rough one, huh? Looks like you just wrestled a bear,” you ask, stepping toward her even though you know the answer.

She huffs, yanking the clip from her hair as if it personally offended her, earrings swaying. “Define ‘long.’ If you mean ‘tried to kill the superintendent with my eyes,’ then yeah.”

You grin. “Sounds productive.”

“Bunch of pencil-pushing numbskulls who wouldn’t last a day in a classroom,” she mutters.

You step closer, taking her coat from her hands. Your fingers brush hers, a jolt like static electricity before a storm. Her hands, usually so steady, are trembling, and it isn’t from nerves; it’s that hum of anticipation you know so well.

“If you wanted my clothes off, you could’ve just asked,” she says, trying for snark but her voice wavers. She almost pulls her hands back, but then lets them rest in yours, a tremor running through them that has nothing to do with the cold.

You smile, hanging her coat neatly. “I am asking.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, yeah.”

You press your palm to her cheek, tilting her face toward you. The fire in her gaze dims just a little, making room for something raw and wanting.

“You done being the boss for today?” you ask softly.

Her breath catches. She hesitates, and for a second she’s all bite again, jaw clenching. “Maybe.”

You just stare at her, letting the silence hang. Melissa knows the drill. Finally, she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for a week, her eyes dropping to your mouth. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Words, honey,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over her lip. “Tell me.”

She swallows, her throat bobbing. When she speaks, her voice is low and raspy. “I want you to take over.”

God, she’s so damn pretty like this. The attitude is still there, banked like embers waiting for you to coax it out in gasps and moans.

You guide her backward, a firm hand on the small of her back, feeling the sudden rigidity in her spine before it gives way. She practically tumbles onto the mattress, and you’re right there, straddling her hips before she can even think about protesting. She smirks up at you, that challenging glint still in her eyes.

“You gonna keep hoverin’ or are we actually doing something here, wiseass?” Her voice is raspy, but the bite is still there.

You lean down, nose brushing hers, voice dropping to a growl. “Watch it, Schemmenti. Don’t push your luck.”

She snorts, but her chest is already rising and falling faster. “Yes, ma’am.” The words are laced with mock obedience, but her body is humming.

You dip your head, teeth scraping lightly along the curve of her throat, just under her ear. She hisses, a sharp, choked sound, her fingers digging into your thighs so hard you’ll have crescent marks later.

“Fuck,” she breathes, hips twitching under yours. “That all you got, hotshot?”

You grin against her skin. “Not even close.”

You kiss along her jaw and behind her ear, the spot that makes her shudder. She lets out a breathy, frustrated curse, head tilting back to give you more access.

“Say it,” you murmur, brushing her hair back from her temple.

Her eyes flutter, heavy-lidded. “Say what?”

You pinch her thigh hard enough to make her jolt. She gasps, breath catching. “Say you’re giving it up. That you’re mine.”

She glares at you, stubborn fire flaring. But it’s a losing battle. You see the fight drain out of her, leaving her raw. Her voice is just a rasp: “I’m yours. Just… please.”

“Good girl.”

She whines, low and guttural, hips bucking against yours, legs tightening around your waist. Every time she tries for friction, you catch her wrists and pin them to the bed.

“Behave.”

She tests your grip, smirking even as she breathes hard. “Or what?”

You lean in, voice dark as sin. “Or you don’t get to come.”

That shuts her up. Her eyes go wide, the challenge instantly replaced by pure, unadulterated need. She stills under you, swallowing hard.

“Please,” she whispers, voice cracking. “Please don’t stop.”

You reward her with slow, deliberate touches, your mouth dragging fire down her sternum. Your fingers trace her ribs, teasing, denying, then giving just enough to make her squirm. She begs you in gasped curses and breathless pleas, all that fierce attitude stripped away.

You smile against her skin. “That’s it, honey. Keep begging. Let me hear you.”

She tries to glare but it’s all wet lashes and parted lips now. “Fuck. Fuck you. I…oh God”

You press your thumb to her clit hard enough to make her voice break. “Try again.”

She gasps, hips bucking. “Please, please don’t stop, baby. I need it. Need you to…fuck…just make me come. Please.”

“Good girl.” You slide two fingers deep inside her, curling just right. She practically sobs, walls clenching tight. “You’re so wet for me. Is this what you want? To be fucked open until you can’t remember your own name?”

She whines. “Yes. Yes…shit, yes. Fuck me. Don’t stop.”

You laugh softly, low and cruel. “God, you’re so fucking needy. I love watching you fall apart.”

She bucks harder, voice breaking. “Jesus…fuck..harder…please”

“You want it that bad? Use your words. Tell me who you belong to.”

She hesitates, biting her lip, but you grind your thumb against her clit and she breaks. “You! Yours. Fuck! I’m yours. Please.”

You grin, voice thick. “That’s my girl.”

You speed up, fingers pumping mercilessly. She writhes under you, legs spread wide, breath hitching on sobs. She’s cursing between gasps, voice hoarse with need.

“God…oh God…I’m gonna…fuck”

You slow just enough to make her wail. She fights your grip, almost crying. “Please! Please don’t tease. I’m begging you. Baby, please.”

“Shh,” you soothe, kissing her roughly. “Come for me. Now.”

She shatters. The orgasm hits her like a truck, body convulsing, back arching off the bed, mouth open on a strangled moan of your name. She’s gripping your arms so hard you’ll bruise, riding your fingers desperately. You work her through it, relentless but careful, until she’s a shaking, overstimulated mess.

You finally slow, pulling your slick fingers out with a wet sound that makes her whine. She slumps, breathless, hair plastered to her sweaty face.

She pants hard, glaring weakly. “You… are such an… asshole.”

You grin, brushing her hair back from her forehead. “You’re welcome.”

“Fuck you,” she rasps.

“Maybe later.” You bring your fingers to your mouth, licking them clean, making sure she watches. “God, you taste so good.”

She shivers. “You’re disgusting.”

“But you love it.”

She drops her head back, exhausted. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”

You lean down, kissing her slow and deep, letting her taste herself on your tongue. She melts into it despite herself, kissing you back with broken whimpers.

When you finally pull back, she’s half-glazed, voice cracking. “Don’t think this means you’re in charge tomorrow.”

You smirk. “Sure, Schemmenti. Whatever you say.”

She snorts, eyes fluttering shut, breath evening out. “Smartass.”

But she doesn’t fight you when you wrap your arms around her and pull her close, pressing kisses to her temple. Her fingers curl weakly in your shirt like she’d rather die than admit how safe she feels there.

“Boss bitch by day,” you whisper against her hair. “Mine by night.”

She hums, too tired to argue. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “Yours.”

[clandestinemoments]

Sunday Sauce and Secrets • Melissa Schemmenti x F!Reader • After your grandfather’s death, Sunday dinners get messy when your secret with Nonna’s best friend, Melissa, threatens to come out.• Inspired by this short film starring Lisa Ann Walter.

18+ MDNI

The scent of simmering tomatoes and garlic filled your grandmother’s rowhome like it did every Sunday. The house had that soft hum of life again: TV murmuring in the den, pots clattering in the kitchen, and nonnas yelling over each other like it was a sport.

You were elbow deep in the sink, washing romaine with way more force than necessary, when you heard her voice float through the hallway.

“Is this tomato paste or tinted water?”

You froze. That gravelly, unmistakable South Philly drawl.

Melissa Schemmenti.

You turned slowly, heart hammering despite the thousand times you’d told yourself to be cool. There she was, sauntering into the kitchen in a leather jacket, red hair framed her face, and gold hoops caught the light every time she moved her head, which was often because Melissa never said anything without a little attitude.

She winked at you.

Your stomach did a complicated flip.

“Hey, doll.”

“Melissa,” you said, trying not to choke on your own tongue. “Didn’t expect you today.”

“You serious? I haven’t missed a Sunday dinner here in thirty years.” She grabbed the wooden spoon, gave the sauce a stir, then tasted it with a skeptical grunt. “You need more salt. Don’t be shy. This ain’t hospital food.”

Your grandmother, seated in her armchair, chimed in from the living room.

“She made your grandfather’s eulogy sound like a Sinatra song. ’Course she’s welcome.”

Melissa’s smile softened at that, genuine, a little sad, and she set the spoon down. “He deserved it,” she said quietly, before turning briskly back to the sauce. “Now hand me that basil before you bruise it to death.”

You hadn’t seen her since the funeral. You thought she might back off, give you time to grieve. Or maybe she didn’t want to keep sneaking around, now that your grandmother was leaning on her more than ever. But here she was.

As the afternoon passed, you tried to focus on the food, the chatter, the clatter of plates, but Melissa was always within arm’s reach, brushing by you too casually, topping off your wine without asking.

“Drink up,” she whispered. “Helps you tolerate the company.”

Every brush of her hand against yours felt like a siren.

Your cousin Gia, ever the sleuth, narrowed her eyes at the two of you over cannoli.

“You two are acting weird,” she said, wiping cream from her mouth. “What, you in cahoots or something?”

You laughed too hard.

Melissa raised a brow, unimpressed.

“Sweetheart, if I was in cahoots, you’d never catch me.”

Gia didn’t drop it. She watched the way Melissa refilled your glass again, how your eyes lingered too long. You felt it brewing: questions, whispers, a potential explosion.

After dinner, you stepped outside to catch your breath. The July air was thick, heavy with heat and the scent of basil from the backyard. You wiped sweat from your brow and tried to will your heart to slow down.

You could still hear the laughter inside: your grandmother cackling at something on TV, Gia rummaging in the fridge, Melissa’s voice low and teasing as she let the screen door creak shut behind her.

“Gonna stand out here all night?” she drawled.

You glared. “I needed…air.”

She raised a brow. “Air. Sure. Not like you’re trying to avoid me or anything.”

Your glare softened. She saw right through you.

“You’re making this impossible,” you hissed.

Melissa snorted. “What, dinner? Or this little performance you’re doing pretending we’re just friends?” She stepped closer, so close you could feel the warmth rolling off her. “C’mon. We’re not foolin’ anyone.”

Your chest squeezed.

“Please. Not now.”

Melissa’s jaw tightened. She exhaled, fighting the urge to argue. Then, gruffly, she brushed your hair back. “Hey. I know. I’ll behave. For now.”

“Melissa…”

She let out a long sigh and wrapped her arms around your waist, pressing her forehead to yours. “I know it’s messy,” she muttered. “But I’m not gonna stop wanting you.”

Your eyes burned. “Melissa…”

She kissed you, hard and unsteady, like she’d been holding her breath for weeks. You whimpered against her mouth.

You didn’t even hear the door swing open again until Gia’s voice rang out.

“Y/N? You out here? Grandma wants you.”

Melissa jerked away like she’d been burned.

“She’s right here!” she called back, voice far too bright.

You exhaled shakily, fixing your hair before following her back inside.

A Week Earlier

It had started in Melissa’s kitchen, like it always did.

You’d gone over under the flimsy excuse of fixing her printer.

“Gimme that,” she said, snatching the manual. “Neither of us is fixing shit tonight.”

You smirked. “Oh yeah? What are we fixing?”

Melissa’s eyes gleamed. “You. Don’t even pretend you came here for the printer.”

Before you could even blink, she had you lifted, strong arms hoisting you onto the cool kitchen counter like you weighed nothing. Her mouth crashed into yours, a pure, urgent need. She always kissed like a woman who knew what she wanted and had zero time for dilly-dallying. Her hands, rough from a lifetime of cooking and, well, living, were greedy. They didn’t just slide up your shirt; they bunched the fabric, tugging it up, fingers splayed wide against your bare ribs, tracing every sensitive curve. When her thumbs brushed your nipples through your bra, you gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound.

"You love playin' games, don't ya? Sneakin' around like we're in some damn soap opera," she growled against your lips, her voice a low rumble that vibrated through your bones.

You whimpered, "Melissa…"

She pulled back just enough to nip at your throat, a sharp, exhilarating little bite that had a shiver running straight down your spine. Her grin, a flash of pure devilment, was right against your skin. "Keep mouthing off, sweetheart. It's real cute. But we both know what you came here for."

Your legs, almost on their own, locked around her hips. She didn't just rock; she ground into you, a slow, deliberate pressure that had your core tightening, the friction a maddening promise. One hand, calloused and confident, slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers already hooking into your panties, teasing the very edge of your slickness. Slow, agonizingly slow, but so damn sure.

"Jesus, you're soaked," she muttered, her voice a rough murmur of satisfaction against your ear. "You're fuckin' killing me here, Y/N."

You cried out, a broken sound of pure pleasure, when she pushed two fingers inside you. Not just deep and steady, but seeking, exploring, finding that sweet spot with an unerring aim that made your vision blur. Her thumb wasn’t just circling your clit; it was applying precise, deliberate pressure, coaxing a moan that was already clawing its way up your throat.

"Melissa…oh my god!" you gasped, unable to hold back.

"Shh," she whispered, but it wasn't a demand for silence, it was a low, possessive murmur. She kissed you again, deep, silencing your moans with her own mouth, swallowing your cries as you started to unravel. "There it is. Don't you dare hold back on me, Y/N. Give it to me."

You finally broke apart in her arms, not just clenching, but spasming around her fingers, your body arching, raw and exposed. You didn't just cry her name; you sobbed it, a litany of pure release. She held you there on the counter, your legs still locked around her, her mouth never leaving yours, kissing you through every shuddering wave. She praised you softly, guttural little murmurs of "Good girl," and "That's it, doll," until you shivered with the delicious aftershocks, utterly breathless in her grasp.

When you finally caught your breath, she was smirking like the devil.

“Look at you. Christ, you’re trouble,” she said.

She raised her phone.

“Melissa, don’t—”

“Relax, doll. Not like I’m posting it on Facebook.”

She snapped the photo anyway, blurry, intimate, your shirt half-open, hair mussed, eyes hazy with pleasure.

You scowled, even as your heart raced.

“Delete that.”

“Not a chance.”

Back to the Present

Inside, your grandmother was waving her phone around.

“Melissa, how the hell do I make this bigger?”

Melissa frowned, leaning over. “What is it?”

You turned to stone when you saw the screen.

That photo. That photo.

You, on her lap. Shirt half-off. Face blissed out.

“Oh my god,” you croaked.

Melissa went white. She snatched the phone. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, give me that.”

Your grandmother blinked, squinting. “What’s that? Is that you?”

“NOTHING!” Melissa barked. “Forget you even saw it. I’m nuking the damn internet.”

Gia shrieked with laughter.

“WAIT. OH MY GOD. I KNEW YOU TWO WERE FUCKING!”

“Gia, shut UP,” you hissed.

Your grandmother was looking increasingly horrified and confused. “What are you yelling about? What photo?”

“NOTHING,” Melissa snapped. “It’s gone. It never existed. Capisce?”

Gia was howling. “Your face! Y/N’s FACE! I’m never gonna recover!”

You buried your face in your hands.

Later, when it finally calmed down (if you could call it that), you cornered Melissa in the hallway.

You were bright red. Furious. Mortified.

“You sent it to my grandmother?” you whisper-screamed.

Melissa winced.

“I meant to send it to you, okay? Don’t yell at me, I’m old.”

You let out a strangled laugh that was half a sob.

“Oh my god, Melissa.”

She dropped her head to your shoulder, mumbling against your neck. “I’m sorry, doll.”

You swallowed. “What the fuck do we do now?”

She lifted her head and met your eyes, brow raised in challenge. “Well. That secret’s shot to hell.”

You groaned.

Melissa’s smirk was slow, a little wicked, as her thumbs gently wiped away your frustrated tears. "Look on the bright side, doll," she rumbled, her voice low and confident. "Might not have to sneak around anymore, huh?"

Your chest tightened with a mix of dread and something else entirely. "We’re gonna have to explain this to my grandmother," you managed, the implication of everything hanging in the air.

Melissa gave a casual shrug, but her eyes held yours, a challenge in their depths. Her mouth twitched. "Yeah, well. Good thing I’m good with speeches. And your Nonna? She knows a thing or two about life. She'll get it."

And despite everything, despite your heart still pounding a frantic rhythm, your face on fire with mortification, your whole family probably still reeling in chaos, she leaned in. Not a quick peck, but a deliberate, slow advance. Her eyes dropped to your lips, then back to yours, asking permission without actually asking.

When her mouth finally met yours, it wasn't just soft or slow. It was a promise. A deep, deliberate press that tasted of Sunday sauce and a future she was absolutely claiming. Her hand came up to cup your cheek, calloused thumb stroking your skin, anchoring you. This wasn't just a kiss to soothe; it was a kiss that said, We're in this now. Together. And I'm not going anywhere, understand? You could feel the unspoken "Capisce?" in the way she held you, solid and unyielding.