“C’mon,” Emma murmurs against Regina’s neck, pressing her up against the apartment door for good measure. “You know what these stupid parties are like. My parents will be so busy holding court it’ll take at least an hour to notice I’m not there yet.”
“But it’s your birthday,” Regina gasps, clutching at Emma’s brand-new-but-actually-vintage black leather jacket. If she insisted on dressing like a failed biker, Regina had informed her when handing over the perfectly-wrapped box, then Emma would at least do so in labels.
“And as the birthday girl, I want my next present to be you. Naked, and on the first flat surface we get to, understood?”
“No wonder you won that debate,” Regina teases, but the huskiness of her voice tells Emma that this battle is won. “I suppose we could always slip in through the kitchen, make it look like we were there the whole time. It’s not like I’m really invited, anyway.”