I can’t pretend anymore.

I need his hands on me or I’m going to lose my mind.

Four days of this slow torture have pushed me past the edge. Every almost-touch, every lingering look, every low “little one” has left me raw and aching. My body feels like a live wire. I’ve been walking around dripping, thighs constantly slick, nipples tight against whatever I’m wearing. Touching myself isn’t enough anymore. I need him. His fingers. His mouth. The weight of him pressing me down.

It’s a little after midnight on the fourth night. The neighborhood is silent except for the distant hum of the highway. I don’t bother with real...