The longhouse was too warm. Too close. Erika Saito lay on her bed of furs, staring at the smoke-blackened rafters, her breath coming in shallow pants that she couldn't seem to control. The central hearth had burned down to embers hours ago, but her skin was slick with sweat, her thighs pressed together beneath the heavy blanket, trying to still the ache that had been building for three days now.
Three days of lying still while her body burned from the inside out. Three days of listening to the wind howl beyond the walls and feeling her blood pulse hot and thick through her veins. The other women in the longhouse slept soundly, their breaths even, their bodies still. They didn't feel this. They couldn't.
She turned onto her side, pressing her forehead against the cold log wall, and felt the throb between her legs sharpen. It was animal. There was no other word for it. An animal pull that coiled low in her belly and spread through her thighs like heat from a forge, making her clench around nothing, making her want to press her hand between her legs and press and press until something—anything—relieved the pressure.
She'd tried. Yesterday, when the longhouse was empty. Her fingers had been slick and desperate, working herself toward a peak that had come fast and sharp and left her trembling, but the relief had lasted barely an hour. The heat had returned, deeper this time, . Her own touch wasn't enough. It knew it wasn't enough.
Her body wanted something else. Something her mind was afraid to name.