Sometimes, the quiet of the house feels suffocating. The way my fingers trace the edge of my coffee cup, the way my thighs press together under the table—it’s all just... restless. I miss the weight of a man’s hands on my hips, the way his cock would fill me until I couldn’t think about anything else. But more than that, I miss the warmth of someone’s body against mine, the whispered words that make my skin prickle. Maybe tonight, I’ll let my fingers wander where they’ve been craving to go, imagining it’s someone else’s touch. Or maybe I’ll just pour another glass of wine and pretend I’m not aching for more.