The karaoke booth was a box of neon and bad decisions. I was sitting on the black leather seat, a microphone in my hand, and my girlfriend’s best friend was kneeling beside me with her hand on my thigh.
“Your friends are in the booth next door,” I whispered, looking at the neon screen that was still scrolling lyrics. “The mic is live. The door is thin. And your hand is on my thigh instead of the song list. You’re supposed to be helping me pick a duet. Not touching me.”
She didn’t speak. Just leaned in, her cheek brushing my jaw, her hand sliding higher.
“If they hear us through the wall,” I breathed, the bass from the next booth vibrating through the partition, “they’ll know you’re not singing. They’ll hear my voice breaking and the mic hitting the floor and they’ll know that the woman they left alone with their best friend is being unmade in a karaoke booth—”
She turned my face toward her. Kissed me. Slow. Muted. A kiss that tasted like tequila and treason and the exact moment when a love song becomes a confession.
The booth door rattled — a knock, a voice asking for the mic—
Full story in the first comment. Read what happened when her friend knocked while her hand was inside my camisole. You won’t believe what she whispered while the screen showed the lyrics. 👇🔥
