Disclaimer: I don't own Skins. Or anything of any real importance.
A/N: So this one's from Naomi's point of view and I'd really appreciate comments.

I know I'm so utterly selfish, but I convince myself, try to convince myself, that it's not my fault. Not my fault that she looks so fucking hot spread out beneath me, her hair fanned out in a perfectly tangled mess across my pillow, gasping for breath as though I'm the only person on this earth who can render her so utterly breathless. Not my fault that her skirt was just a little bit too tight against her perfect thighs, that her eyes were just a little bit too mesmerizing, her kisses just a little bit too addictive. And so, I think to myself, I can't, shouldn't really, be held accountable for my actions. Held accountable for the fact that I pressed her so roughly up against the lockers in the middle of the fucking hallway. (In public, for Christ sake.) Or that I so determinedly took her hand and led her into my room to unwrap her like a perfectly treasured present. I kiss a scorching line down her neck, pushing the fabric of her bra down so I can grant myself the selfish luxury of capturing her nipple between my teeth, relishing each gasp, each moan it brings about. Her back arches instinctively, pushing her body further against my own, and any half-hearted attempts to cease the constant throbbing between my legs are rendered utterly useless, because I simply can't resist the flawlessly silky-smooth skin beneath my touch.

I'm utterly and hopelessly paralysed, momentarily at least, as my eyes take in the sight before me. Emily,with her shirt undone and her bra pushed down tantalizingly beneath her breasts, her skirt pushed up by my own hands moments earlier to almost (but not quite, I notice) expose her completely to my wanting touch. A whimper escapes her perfectly formed lips and I know I'd give anything, do anything, to hear that sound again. That I'll never, despite all my deep-rooted denial and careless sarcasm, get tired of hearing that sound. And so who can really blame me for so thoughtlessly allowing myself to give into temptation? And I know that, after this fleeting moment of passion is over and I mentally put myself on trial, I will most certainly plead insanity. The thought is strangely, yet unjustifiably, comforting as my hand finds its way between her legs and into her thong. Which, I can't help but smugly notice, is soaked through. It's removed in an instant, joining my own clothes in a tangled pile upon my bedroom floor, waiting expectantly to be picked up wearily, brokenly, as soon as this is over and reality once again rears its ugly head. She mumbles incoherently as my fingers come into contact with her clit and I feel the fire between her legs, not quite believing that I could be, that I am, the cause of it. And I'm pretty fucking sure that it's a well known fact that one should not play with fire, for fear of getting burnt. But this thought, along with any other coherent musing, soon vanishes into thin air. Not my fault, I remind myself. And I keep reminding myself as my fingers press insistently into her and I watch her completely fall apart beneath me, grasping the pillow tightly between perfect fingers and closing her beautiful eyes tightly as she comes. I gaze down at her in complete awe, watching her gradually drift back to reality before her eyes once again open and she looks at me with such wonder that I honestly don't know how I ever survived without being on the receiving end of such a look.

And then suddenly yet oh-so welcomingly, I find myself flipped over until I'm lying flat on my back with her hovering above me. I know I must look utterly helpless, utterly desperate. Because each touch somehow manages to be too much yet not enough, never enough, all at the same time. And I don't think I've ever been so completely out of control as I am in this moment. But I refuse to care, because right now her teeth are nipping random patterns across my neck and, just before she reaches my collar bone she bites down hard. Hard enough to draw a gasp from my raw lips. Hard enough, I realise, to leave a crimson Emily-shaped bruise across my neck which will perfectly, so very perfectly, mirror the one which she has, albeit unwittingly, left across my heart. I should be thinking that this mark will, come morning, act as yet another painful reminder of just how fucking powerless I am under her gaze. Should be thinking that this will ultimately only ever lead to heartbreak for both of us. That my eyes will inevitably be drawn to the knowing mark every fucking moment I'm awake until it finally, forgivingly, fades. But my brain simply can't, or chooses not to, register these thoughts. Because her thigh has so insistently, so beautifully slid its way between my legs and I can't stop, won't stop, the strangled, breathless moan which escapes from deep within my throat as it comes into contact with my wetness. She kisses down my stomach, pausing, deliberately I think to myself (because she has to know what she's doing to me), just before she reaches my centre. And then everything becomes a blur because her tongue finds my clit and I feel her fingers push inside me so skillfully, so purely.

My fingernails dig roughly, desperately, into the perfect flesh of her back and I know, just know, that they will leave a prominent mark. I wonder to myself if, hours later, she will regard the marks with the same broken heart that I will. If she'll gaze upon them in the mirror with an equal amount of torment as I know I will when I view the mark she has left upon my own skin. My grip increases with every thrust from her fingers, every perfectly timed flick of her tongue against my clit, and I hear her gasp in pain (or perhaps it's pleasure) as her touches become far too much and I find myself reduced to a pathetic unravelled mess as she takes me over the edge, as my hips defiantly jolt upwards and I vaguely, despite the insistent buzzing of my brain, hear myself gasp her name. Not my fault, I once again assure myself.