Presidents day

 

“I c'n nod stell a lie, im zzzrunk,” she slurred, smiling, a can of beer in her hand. “A-Aria,” you stamered her name trying to sound stern, as her big boobs jiggled in her blue cotton bikini bra. The panties, featuring a matching white floral pattern with some dark blue leaves, ride high on her hips, and cling to her but. Her skin glistens from the heat of the house on the otherwise cold President’s day.

Aria wobbled slightly as she leaned against the counter, her golden hair tied up in a messy ponytail that somehow made her look even more effortlessly beautiful. The can of beer in her hand tilted dangerously, threatening to spill its last few sips onto the kitchen floor.

“I can not tell a lie, I’m drunk,” she giggled, her voice warm and slurred just enough to make it obvious.

You took a cautious step forward, eyes scanning her face — flushed, glowing, carefree. “Aria…” you said softly, trying to sound stern, but your voice cracked a little under the weight of the moment. “You need some water. And maybe to sit down before you break something. Or fall.”

She waved a dismissive hand, then hiccupped. “I’m fine. Just celebrating. It’s President’s Day! I love presidents. I love… you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You love presidents?”

“Nooo,” she slurred, swaying toward you, “you dummy.”

That caught you off guard. The words hung in the air — bold and clumsy, but honest. You reached out on instinct, steadying her by the waist. Her skin was warm, her laugh soft as she leaned into your touch.

“Okay,” you murmured, “you’re drunk. But that was kind of sweet.”

Aria grinned up at you, her eyes bright and unfocused. “You’re sweet,” she said, poking your chest with a wobbly finger. “And you’re always looking out for me. You know that? I notice. Even when I pretend not to.”

For a moment, the kitchen was quiet — save for the gentle hum of the fridge and the slow, erratic rhythm of her breathing. She rested her head against your shoulder, and you let your arms wrap around her naturally, protectively.

“You really should sit down,” you whispered.

“I really should kiss you,” she whispered back.You froze for a second — not out of fear or surprise, but because of how gently she’d said it. As if kissing you wasn’t some impulsive decision spurred by alcohol, but something she’d been thinking about for a while and only now had the courage to say.

“Aria…” you started, voice soft.

She tilted her head up to look at you, that goofy smile still on her face, but her eyes were searching yours now. “Don’t talk me out of it,” she murmured. “Just… let me feel something good.”

So you didn’t talk. You leaned down slowly, giving her time to pull away. She didn’t. Her lips brushed yours, warm and a little clumsy, but full of intent. The kiss deepened naturally, as if it had been waiting to happen. Her hand came to rest on your chest, fingertips curling into your shirt.

When you finally pulled away, she let out a soft sigh and rested her forehead against yours. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” she whispered.

You smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “Me too.”

“But maybe…” she hiccupped again, chuckling, “maybe I should have another beer,”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as she sipped her beer.

She giggled, stumbling slightly as you led her to the couch. Her bikini-clad body swayed with each step, the floral-patterned panties catching the dim light of the house, accentuating the curve of her hips. The heat inside was almost oppressive, making her skin glisten even more, a faint sheen of sweat highlighting the contours of her collarbone and the soft dip of her waist. You tried not to stare, but it was hard when she looked so effortlessly captivating, even in her drunken haze.

Aria flopped onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh, sprawling out dramatically, her head lolling back against the cushions. “This is nice,” she mumbled, her voice softer now, the alcohol clearly pulling her toward sleep. Her golden ponytail was coming loose, strands sticking to her flushed cheeks. She patted the spot next to her, eyes glinting mischievously. “Sit with me.”

You hesitated for a second, still processing the kiss, the way her lips had felt against yours—soft, warm, and a little reckless. But her invitation was impossible to resist. You sat down beside her, close enough that your thigh brushed hers. She immediately shifted, curling into your side, her head resting on your shoulder again. Her hand found yours, fingers intertwining loosely.

“You’re too good to me,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper now. “Always taking care of me. Even when I’m a mess.”

“You’re not a mess,” you said, squeezing her hand gently. “You’re just… celebrating President’s Day a little too hard.”

She snorted, a sound that was somehow adorable despite her drunken state. “I meant what I said, you know,” she added, her words slurring but sincere. “About wanting to kiss you. That wasn’t just the beer talking.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You turned to look at her, her face so close you could feel the warmth of her breath. “Aria, you’re drunk. Let’s talk about this when you’re—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, her voice suddenly sharper, though still soft. She lifted her head, her eyes locking onto yours with surprising clarity. “Don’t tell me I don’t know what I want. I’ve known for a while. The beer just… made it easier to say.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling over you. The room felt smaller, the air heavier with the unspoken tension that had been building between you for longer than you’d care to admit. Her hand tightened around yours, and she leaned in again, her lips hovering just inches from yours.

“Aria,” you said, your voice low, almost a warning. But it wasn’t a warning to her—it was to yourself, a reminder to tread carefully when every part of you wanted to close the distance again.

She didn’t wait for you to decide. With a soft, determined hum, she kissed you again, slower this time, less clumsy but no less intense. Her lips moved against yours with a quiet confidence, her hand sliding up to cup your cheek. The taste of beer lingered faintly, but it was overshadowed by the warmth of her, the way she pressed closer, her body soft and pliant against yours.

When she pulled back, her eyes were heavy with a mix of desire and exhaustion. “See?” she whispered, a small, triumphant smile tugging at her lips. “Still want you. Beer or no beer.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, brushing your thumb gently across her cheek. “You’re impossible,” you said, but there was no hiding the affection in your voice.

She nestled back into your side, her body relaxing as the alcohol finally started to win out. “Stay with me,” she mumbled, her words trailing off as her eyes fluttered shut. “Just… stay.”

You didn’t say anything, just pulled a throw blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over her, careful not to disturb her now-sleeping form. Her breathing evened out, soft and steady, and you sat there in the quiet, her warmth pressed against you, her words echoing in your mind.

As the hum of the fridge filled the silence, you couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight had changed something between you—something that no amount of sobriety or morning-after clarity could undo. And as you glanced down at her peaceful face, you realized you didn’t want it to.