With her eyes closed:
She could pretend this wasn't the fire stairwell of the Hilton, or
Sheraton, or whatever upper-middle-class hotel they were in. It wasn't 2
AM the night before Finals and her fingers weren't pounding into some
girl whose name she couldn't remember, whose thumbnail was flicking her
clit maddeningly, over and over until she was close, so close she wanted
to scream and cry and die all at once.
She could imagine the hair against her cheek was golden, fine and
smooth, not brown, coarse and wavy, not much different than her own. The
vanilla perfume that choked her with its cloying sweetness annointed
peaches-and-cream innocence personified, not a tanned demigoddess whose
every word - every action - exuded sensuality.
She could fall, and Tor would catch her.