Tonight I’m not leaving until he fucks 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...