The Cineplex was a relic from the nineties, all red velvet and sticky floors and surround sound that made your teeth rattle. Our parents loved it—nostalgia, they called it. Her mother and my father had been coming here since before we were born, since before they were married, since before they’d blended our families into something that felt like a minefield.
Tonight was a horror movie. Some demon-possession flick that had gotten terrible reviews but was the only thing playing at 9 PM on a Tuesday. Our parents had suggested it. “Girls’ night,” they’d said. “Sisterly bonding.”
I was twenty-four. Sloane was twenty-six. We’d been stepsisters for three years, and in that time, we’d perfected the art of avoiding each other. Different cities for college. Different schedules for holidays. Different lives that only intersected at forced family events like this one.
Until tonight.
The theater was almost empty. Maybe ten people total, scattered throughout the rows like punctuation marks. Our parents were three rows back, sharing a large popcorn, their eyes glued to the screen. Sloane and I were in the middle row, surrounded by empty seats, the flickering projection casting shadows that made her face look like a mask.
I was trying to follow the plot. Something about a mirror and a demon and a family that didn’t know they were cursed. But my attention kept drifting to Sloane—the way her black turtleneck clung to her throat, the way her jeans rode up her ankle, the way she hadn’t looked at me once since the previews.
Then the jumpscare hit.
A face in the mirror. A scream. And I flinched so hard I knocked the popcorn onto the floor.
Sloane’s hand covered mine on the armrest. Warm. Sure. Completely unexpected.
“It’s just a movie,” I whispered, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. “I’m not scared.”
She leaned closer. Her lips brushed my ear, sending electricity down my spine, making my breath hitch in a way that had nothing to do with the demon on screen.
“Then why is your heart beating so fast?” she whispered.
I turned. Our faces were inches apart in the flickering glow—her blue eyes dark with something that looked like hunger, her smile dangerous and knowing, her hand still covering mine on the sticky armrest.
“Because you’re sitting too close,” I breathed. “Your mother is three rows back. My father is with her. They can see us.”
Sloane didn’t pull away. She just smiled wider, leaned in, and kissed my cheek. Slow. Deliberate. Her lips lingered on my skin long enough to leave a mark, long enough that I felt the heat of her mouth like a brand.
“She thinks we’re bonding,” Sloane whispered against my jaw. Her hand slid from the armrest to my thigh, finding the hem of my skirt, sliding underneath with a confidence that made my vision blur. “Let her think that.”
Her fingers found my underwear. The screen flashed—another jumpscare, another scream from the speakers, another moment of chaos that covered the sound of my gasp as Sloane’s fingers slid inside me.
“Sloane,” I moaned, the sound swallowed by the surround sound as the demon attacked the hero on screen.
“Quiet,” she whispered, her mouth on my neck, her teeth grazing my pulse point. “The movie is loud. But not loud enough for you to scream.”
She used the jumpscares like a metronome. Every time the screen flashed white, every time the speakers rattled with a scream, she pressed deeper, moved faster, found a rhythm that matched the violence on screen. Her thumb circled my clit. Her fingers curled inside me. And her mouth—her wicked, perfect mouth—whispered things against my ear that were filthier than anything in the movie.
“The hero is about to die,” she whispered, her eyes on the screen while her hand destroyed me. “Watch him. Watch him die while I make you come.”
I watched. The hero walked into the mirror. The demon emerged. The music swelled. And Sloane pressed her palm against me, her fingers hitting the exact spot inside me that made my back arch off the velvet seat, my hands grip the armrests, my vision go white at the edges.
I came as the hero died. My orgasm crashed through me silently, violently, completely consuming—amplified by the surround sound, the darkness, the knowledge that my father and her mother were three rows back discussing the cinematography while their daughters committed sin in seat 14B.
Sloane didn’t stop. She kept her fingers inside me, moving slowly, drawing out aftershocks that made me shake.
“Wait for the credits,” she whispered, her lips against my ear. “Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t let them see. Sit through the entire credits while I feel you pulse around my fingers.”
I did. The movie ended. The credits rolled. Our parents stood up, stretched, started walking toward the exit.
“Coming, girls?” her mother called.
“Be right there!” Sloane called back, her voice perfectly casual. “Just finishing my drink.”
Her fingers were still inside me.
The lights came up slowly. Sloane finally removed her hand, licked her fingers clean while looking at me with an expression that was part triumph, part promise.
“Good girl,” she whispered. “You didn’t make a sound. Now…” She stood up, held out her hand. “The parking lot. My car. And I’m going to finish what the movie started.”
We didn’t make it to the car. We made it to the back row of the parking garage, her mouth on mine, her hands under my skirt, her body pressing me against the concrete pillar while the credits from the next showing flickered on the screen above us.
Our parents think we’re close now. Best friends. Sisters. They suggest movie nights every month. They have no idea that Sloane and I have seen every horror movie released this year, and that I can’t watch a single one without remembering the darkness, the armrest, the way she made me come while the world screamed around us.
Sloane still kisses my cheek during jumpscares. But now, her hand doesn’t stop at my thigh. And I don’t want it to.
