Waiting for Your Touch
The house was silent, the kind of heavy stillness that only amplifies the thrumming of one’s own heartbeat. I had tried calling you, but the operator told me you weren’t at your desk. The frustration of your absence only fueled the fire already burning low in my belly. I spent the entire afternoon imagining the moment you finally come for me, the moment we leave this distance behind and start our life together.
The mere thought of your hands on my skin made me ache. I couldn’t stand the tension any longer. I stripped off my clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor, and stretched out across the living room sofa. My legs fell open naturally, exposing my heat to the cool air of the room.
As soon as my fingers brushed against my center, I found myself already slick, drenched in a longing that only you could satisfy. I began to rub myself in slow, rhythmic circles, imagining the weight of your body pressing me into the cushions, your breath hot against my neck, and the sudden, electric shock of your touch finally claiming what is yours.