I wake with the warmth still inside me.
It's soft – no sharpness, no urgency – but it hums through my body before my eyes fully open. The memory of her name – Mira – rests at the edges of my breath. The sound of her voice, the way her eyes lifted to meet mine. It lingers, deeper than the craving usually does.
I stretch slowly, my hands brushing down over the curve of my stomach, over the softness of my hips. Not to touch. Not to chase. Just to feel. The warmth curls low, patient, steady. I close my eyes for a moment longer, breathing in the weight of it.
For the first time, the ache isn't only mine.
I sit up, my breath moving soft and easy. The craving doesn't fade. It stays – alive but controlled, humming beneath the skin, sharper now with shape. It's not about release. It's not about escape.
It's about her.
I don't move toward it. I let it rest. I carry it with me through the morning light, through the quiet of the house, through the rhythm of a day that feels slower now, more deliberate.
And beneath it all, I feel the hunger still growing.
The thought returns while I'm washing my hands.
Just a flicker at first – the way her fingers moved when she spoke, the softness of her throat, the lift of her eyelashes when she smiled. My breath catches without warning. The craving curls sharper.
I press my palms flat against the countertop, the mirror catching my reflection: steady eyes, loose hair, the faintest flush in my cheeks. I let the warmth rise. I don't pull back.
I think of touching her.
Not fast. Not frantic. Just… slowly. The curve of her waist. The soft give of her thighs. The way her breath might sound if I kissed the side of her neck. I feel the heat stir deeper, sharper, but I keep my breath even.
I imagine guiding her hands too. Not just mine. Hers – hesitant, curious – finding me the way I'd want her to. The weight of touch without rushing. The softness of skin on skin. The pleasure of it building slow.
I exhale unsteady but don't move further. My hands stay still. The ache simmers low.
The thought alone is enough to make my pulse quicken.
I let it linger. I let it stay.
When I dress, I think differently.
It's not for anyone else. Not for show. But my fingers pause longer over the softness of fabric – the slide of tights, the way the waistband presses gentle into skin, the way layers hug close.
I choose carefully. Soft underlayers. The skirt that drapes just right. The sweater that skims the curve of me without clinging too tight. I touch the hem without thought, fingertips brushing as I shift in the mirror.
It's not about hiding.
It's about carrying it with me.
The warmth curls low, but I stay calm. I breathe even. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and let the thought of her settle beneath my ribs.
I don't rush. I don't act. But I let myself want.
When I step outside, the cold air brushes over skin wrapped in softness. The craving hums – not sharp, not wild. Just steady. Just there.
And for the first time, I feel ready for more.