The Echo of Your Touch
The house was silent, the kind of heavy stillness that makes every heartbeat sound like a drum. I lay stretched across my bed, the glow of the television casting flickering blue shadows against the walls, but my mind had long since drifted away from the screen. Boredom had seeped in, and with it, a restless, simmering hunger that only one person could satisfy.
I closed my eyes and let my imagination take hold. I could almost feel you there. I was wearing a pair of sheer, lace-trimmed panties that barely hugged my curves and a thin, beige camisole that left nothing to the imagination. The fabric was a whisper against my skin, teasing my nipples into hard peaks as I began to picture your hands roaming over me.
I imagined your mouth finding the sensitive curve of my neck, your breath hot and demanding. The thought alone made my skin flush. I began to stroke my own breasts, my fingers tracing the lace, longing for the weight of your body pressing me into the mattress. Every imagined touch sent a jolt of electricity through me, leaving me breathless and aching for the real thing.