Disclaimer: I don't own Skins, or anything really except for a packet of cigarretes and an attitude problem.
A/N: So, this is Emily's point of view after the locker scene. Kinda smutty, but with a point. Comments?

Burning. The only way I can even come close to describing the torturous yet oh-so brilliant sensation which has so effortlesly overcome my entire being as I lie writhing beneath her, powerless to stop the wanting and the needing and the complete and utter feeling of helplessness. Because the alarm bells which were ringing so relentlessly, so frantically, within my mind as she took my hand and pulled me away from the building were soon forgotten the very instant I found myself pressed forcefully against the cool wall of her bedroom. And clearly the ''truth'' pills which I was so strongly urged to shove down my throat had malfunctioned or simply given up the fight, because, had they been working correctly, I would have told her that this had to stop. That we had to stop. That I couldnt, wouldn't, be her fucking doormat anymore. Wouldn't be the weak shadow of a person I was so used to, so good at, being. And instead, I find myself lost in a blur of burning caresses and searing kisses which are, which have to be, I think to myself, premeditated. Because no-one, not even Naomi Campbell with her sparkling eyes and knowing smirk, can be that fucking sexy, that fucking beautiful without realising it. Without knowing that every touch threatens to undo me so completely, that every hushed whisper makes me fall ever harder, and that Katie would simply fucking KILL me if she ever found out. But, with her body pressed firmly against mine and her lips pressed equally as firmly against my own, I vaguely conclude in my lust filled haze that I simply don't care right now. That I don't care if I'm left heartbroken and devestated when she nonchalantly leaves me in her bed just like I know she will. Just like she knows she will.

And so I find myself, not even an hour later, lying beneath her, so utterly powerless and desperate in my need. Shamefully arching up against her touch as her hands, those hands, find their way forcefully yet so very tenderly up my shirt. My shirt, which isn't even mine because, as usual, I can't help but notice, I'm pretending to be someone else. These thoughts run frantically through my mind until they are completely obliterated by her addictive touches which promise nothing yet give everything. Her delicate fingers work determinedly on the buttons of my shirt until she reaches the last button, freeing it almost arrogantly and looking up at me with that smirk which I hate so much. That smirk which I love so much, despite every fucking effort not to. I gather all the strength I can (which, in my current predicamant, isn't much) and push myself up, trying desperately to remove my own shirt. Her hand covers my own, stopping it as it pushes the thin material of the shirt down my shoulder, and she whispers hotly in my ear that I should leave it on, that she wants me to leave it on. Whispers that I look so fucking hot dressed like this and that she wants me. And I oblige because I've never been wanted like this before. Never been wanted so badly by anyone, least of all someone who I've been so completely in love with since the first moment I laid eyes on her. And because I can't recall Naomi ever being this unreserved before, and I'm utterly terrified that she'll never be this unreserved again. I nod weakly, momentarily forgetting my train of thought because her teeth are nipping so fucking addictively against my neck and her hands are gliding softly towards the thin fabric of my bra, confidently (perhaps too confidently for a straight girl) pushing the cups down and exposing my breasts to the cool air of the room. To her and that mouth and its knowing kisses. I gasp, (I'm sure she hears me gasp) as her mouth covers one of my nipples and I arch even further into her touch, wishing more than anything that such intense pleasure wouldn't be so inevitibly followed by an equally as strong pain as she, immediately after, denies this. Denies us.

Her hands makes their way almost innocently up my thighs, her palms pushing my skirt up until it rests bunched up against my hips. And she's so gentle that it almost is innocent. Or at least it would be if it wasn't making me so fucking wet, so completely desperate in my need. My tights are pulled down before I can even register, in my current helpless state, what is happening and, after another deafening pause and knowing smirk (that smirk, because I'm pretty sure that she knows exactly what she's doing) she slips my heels back on. And her smirk must be contagious because I find one speading across my own lips as I think to myself that Naomi, the self confessed cock cruncher, is into heels. And it's so wrong but so fucking right at the same time, and I can't help the unapologetic gasp which escapes my lips as her hand finally makes its way between my legs and slips into my thong. I hear another gasp. A gasp which I'm pretty sure mirrors the one which escaped my own lips just seconds before, as it finds its way from between her lips as her fingers slide into my wetness and glide firmly across my clit. My legs wrap themselves tightly around her waist pulling her so close to me, yet not quite close enough. I should, I think to myself, be making every effort to keep my guard up, to remind myself that this feeling of utter bliss is only temporary and that it will be snatched so forcefully from my grasp the instant she realises what she's doing. What we're doing. But I find this shred of common sense is completely obliterated because I can't think straight right now, and I'm pretty sure there's an amusing irony in that statement but I can't quite grasp it because her fingers are working so determinedly inside of me and it's all I can do to grasp the pillow above my head and feel as though my entire world is about to collapse around me.

My thong is slipped effortlessly down my legs and finds itself thrown carelessly on the floor, and I barely have time to register the new-found coolness between my legs before she's inside me once again, harder this time. Harder, because I'm pretty sure she gets some sort of sick pleasure from seeing me frantically thrusting against her hand, desperately begging her to give me some form of release. Any form of release, because right now I don't think I can function properly and the plain white ceiling I'm looking up at, which once offered a comforting simplicity, has instead become blurred and distorted. And then, all too quickly yet not quickly enough, the seemingly unrelenting ache between my legs intensifies as those hands finally, as they have threatened to do, promised to do on so many occasions, finally unravel me. And, despite the fact that this is so very wrong, so very dangerous for my already fractured heart, I find myself smirking as I come down from my high, thinking to myself that Katie most certainly won't be getting this outfit back anytime soon.