Tonight I’m not leaving until he f***s me exactly the way I’ve been begging for in my head for a year.
After last night, after his fingers wrecked me on the couch and he still sent me home with that wrecked “We can’t do this again,” I couldn’t pretend anymore. My body was screaming for him. My mind wouldn’t shut up. I spent all day replaying the way his thick fingers curled inside me, the way he held me down and called me a good girl while I came apart. By dinner I was soaked again, thighs clenched under the table, counting the minutes until it was late enough to sneak over.
I waited until the neighborhood lights started going out. Then I crossed the grass in nothing but a loose tank top and tiny sleep shorts, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might bruise my ribs. This time I didn
