The wine glass was empty again. Nga stared at it—the dregs staining the rim like old blood—then at the bottle on her nightstand. Two-thirds gone. She'd started it with dinner, telling herself it was just one glass. One glass and a bath. One glass and she'd sleep the way normal people slept, heavy and dreamless.
The bath had been a waste of water. She'd lain there until her fingers pruned, the steam fogging the mirror, her hand drifting between her thighs more out of habit than hope. Nothing. The same nothing she'd been chasing for six months, that hollow space where pleasure used to live.
She swung her legs off the bed. The ceiling fan churned the humid air above her, stirring nothing, cooling nothing. Her sundress had twisted around her hips, the hem caught on her thigh, and she didn't bother fixing it. The wine had made everything loose, soft at the edges, her limbs heavy and warm in a way that felt almost like being touched.
Almost.
Her phone sat face-up on the nightstand. She picked it up. Scrolled. Deleted an email from her mother. Scrolled again. Her thumb hovered over a name she'd typed into her contacts weeks ago—joseph, coffee shop, easy smile, read receipts on—and she'd never had the courage to press send.
She pressed it now.
Her heart slammed into her throat. She watched the message bar blink. Empty. She hadn't even typed anything yet, just opened the thread, and already her pulse was a fist in her cunt, that familiar wine-wet ache blooming between her thighs.
She typed: Hey. Deleted it. Typed: You busy? Deleted it. Her fingers were shaking, leaving damp smudges on the screen, and she could smell herself through the thin cotton of her sundress—that sharp, wanting smell she'd almost forgotten.
I can't stop thinking about your hands.
She sent it before she could stop. Before the wine could retreat and leave her sober and sensible and alone again on this bed she'd memorized the shape of. The phone buzzed with her own sent message. Then silence.
She watched the three dots appear. Her chest went tight. The dots disappeared. She held her breath. They appeared again, one, two, three, blinking at her like a heartbeat, and she imagined him reading it, imagining his hands on her hips—rough hands, she remembered, callused, the kind that had held mugs and door handles and now knew exactly what she wanted them to do.
The dots disappeared. Didn't come back.
Nga set the phone down. Picked up the wine bottle. Drank from the neck, a long swallow that burned on the way down, and when she set it back on the nightstand her hand was steadier. She leaned back against the headboard, let her knees fall apart, let the humid air touch her through the damp cotton.
She was already committed. Already slick with it. Already imagining his mouth on her neck, the weight of him above her, the sound he'd make when she finally—
The phone buzzed.
She looked down. One word on the screen.
When.
Her cunt clenched. Empty. Waiting. The wine pulsed through her veins like a second heartbeat, and she picked up the phone with both hands, typed her address, sent it before the wanting could turn back into sense.
Then she set the phone face-down and pressed her thighs together, feeling the ache deepen, hearing herself breathe in the dark, the ceiling fan spinning above her, the wine wet and needy in her blood.
She whispered it into the dark of her bedroom, the words slipping out like a confession she'd been holding too long. "When he gets here—" Her voice caught. She pressed a hand to her mouth, as if she could shove the words back in, but they were already out, already real, already hanging in the humid air above her.
"When he gets here," she said again, slower this time, tasting each word. Her thighs shifted against each other. The cotton of her sundress was damp where she'd been pressed together, a dark patch spreading, and she didn't care. "I'm gonna—" She stopped. Laughed. A low, breathless sound that had nothing to do with humor. "I'm gonna get on my knees."
Saying it out loud made it realer. Made the ache between her legs pulse harder, a hungry beat she could feel in her throat, in her fingertips, in the soft give of her lower lip where she'd bitten down without meaning to.
"I'm gonna take his cock in my mouth," she murmured, and the word felt filthy and right on her tongue, like the wine had loosened everything—her inhibitions, her shame, the careful walls she'd built around wanting. "I'm gonna taste him. Feel him get hard. Hear the sound he makes when I—"
She couldn't finish the sentence. Her hand had drifted down without permission, pressing against the ache through the damp cotton, and she let it stay there, let the pressure build, let herself imagine.
"He's gonna have rough hands," she said, her voice dropping lower, softer, like she was telling herself a bedtime story. "I remember them from the coffee shop. Callused. The kind that's worked for something. When he touches me—" Her fingers curled against her thigh. "When he puts his hands on my hips, I'm gonna—"
The word hung in the air. She didn't say it. She didn't need to.
"And then he's gonna fuck me," she whispered, and the word felt like a key turning in a lock. "Right here. On this bed I've been lying in for six months, telling myself I didn't need it. Telling myself I was fine."
She laughed again, a broken sound.
"I was not fine."
The acknowledgment hit her like a wave—the months of nothing, of hollow pleasure that went nowhere, of fingers that moved but felt nothing, of orgasms that flickered and died before they could catch. She'd stopped trying. Stopped hoping. Stopped letting her hand drift between her thighs because what was the point.
But now—
Now the wine was in her blood and the words were in her mouth and the ache was in her cunt, deep and wet and insistent, and she could not stop imagining.
"He's gonna push inside me," she said, her voice barely audible now, a secret she was telling herself in the dark. "And I'm gonna feel it. Every inch. I'm gonna feel him stretch me. Fill me. And I'm gonna—"
Her breath hitched. Her hand pressed harder. The pressure was building, a coil winding tight in her belly, and she let herself ride it, let herself imagine his weight above her, his mouth on her neck, his hands gripping her hips so hard she'd bruise.
"I'm gonna fucking come," she said, and the word came out fierce, defiant, a promise she was making to herself. "I'm gonna come so hard I forget my own name. I'm gonna shake. I'm gonna scream. I'm gonna—"
She stopped. Swallowed. Imagined the sound of his voice, the low rough of it, asking her where she wanted him.
"I want him behind me," she whispered. "I want to feel him grab my hips and pull me back onto his cock. I want to feel every inch of him. I want to hear him groan when he—"
The phone buzzed. She jumped, her heart slamming into her throat, and she looked down at the screen.
On my way.
Her cunt clenched. Empty. Waiting. The ache deepened, bloomed, filled every space she had, and she pressed her thighs together hard, trying to hold it, trying not to come just from the thought of him walking through her door.
"He's on his way," she said out loud, and the words felt like a spell she was casting on herself. "He's gonna be here. And I'm gonna—"
She didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to. Her hand slid between her thighs one more time, pressing against the damp cotton, and she closed her eyes and let herself feel the wanting, let it wash over her like the wine had, warm and red and patient.
She heard the front door open. The lock she'd left undone. The soft click of it closing again, the weight of his footsteps on the hardwood—slower than she'd expected, like he was giving her time to change her mind.
She didn't. She stayed where she was: facedown on the bed, ass up, her sundress twisted around her hips, the damp cotton of her panties pulled aside. Her fingers were already between her legs, slick and slow, tracing the shape of her own wanting.
"Nga." His voice. Low. Rough. The kind of voice that asked a question she didn't have to answer.
She didn't look up. "You found it."
"You left the door open." A pause. She heard him step closer. Felt the air shift as he moved into the doorway of her bedroom. "That's trusting."
"That's wanting." Her voice came out thick, wine-wet, her cheek pressed against the pillow. She let her fingers slide deeper, let him hear the wet sound of it. "I've been touching myself since I texted you."
Another pause. She felt his eyes on her—on the curve of her spine, the spread of her thighs, the slow movement of her hand.
"Keep going," he said.
She did. She let her fingers circle, let them press, let the ache build slow and patient. Her hips rocked back against her own hand, a small, desperate motion. The wine was still in her blood, warm and red, but this—this was all her. All the wanting she'd buried for six months, rising to the surface.
"You told me you couldn't stop thinking about my hands," he said, and she heard him moving closer—the creak of the floorboard by her bed. "What did you think they'd do?"
She swallowed. Let her fingers still, just for a second. "I thought they'd touch me."
"Where?"
"Everywhere." Her voice cracked. "But first—" She pressed her thighs together, trapping her hand. "First I wanted you to see me like this. To see what you do to me."
He was at the edge of the bed now. She could see his boots in her peripheral vision, dark leather, scuffed at the toes. He didn't touch her. Not yet.
"You're wet," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Since I sent the first message." She let her thighs fall open again, let her fingers resume their slow circuit. "Since I thought about your hands."
He exhaled—a long, slow breath that she felt on her bare thigh. He was close now. So close she could smell him: coffee, soap, something warm underneath.
"I want to watch you finish," he said. "Can you do that? Touch yourself until you come. With me watching."
Her cunt clenched. Empty. Needing. She pushed her fingers in deeper, felt the stretch, felt the desperate pulse of her own body. "Yes."
"Then don't stop." His hand landed on her lower back, light, barely there. A promise. "Don't stop until I tell you to."
She heard the low sound he made, the shift in his breathing as her fingers moved faster, wetter, the sound of her own body filling the room. "You like watching," she said, her voice thick, her cheek pressed into the pillow. "You like seeing me like this."
"Yeah," he said, and the word was rough, almost a groan. "Keep going."
She did. She pushed two fingers deeper, felt the curl of them inside her, the way her hips rocked back to meet her own hand. The wine was still in her blood, warm and dizzying, but this was sharper—the knowledge of his eyes on her, the heat of his hand still resting on her lower back, the weight of his presence. She imagined his mouth between her thighs, his tongue replacing her fingers, and the thought made her gasp, made her press harder, made her cunt clench around nothing.
"I'm so wet," she whispered. "I can feel it dripping down my thigh."
"Good." His hand moved, just a fraction, his thumb tracing the dip of her spine. "That's what I want."
She turned her head, enough to see him over her shoulder. He was still standing at the edge of the bed, his eyes dark, his jaw tight. She could see the bulge in his jeans, the way his hand gripped his own thigh, and the sight of it made her want to taste him, made her want to feel his cock in her mouth, made her want to give him the same ache he was giving her.
"Get on the bed," she said, and her voice came out lower than she'd expected, a command she hadn't known she had. "On your back."
He raised an eyebrow, but he didn't argue. He pulled his shirt off in one motion—and then he was on the bed, lying back against her pillows, his eyes still on her. She rolled onto her side, then onto her knees, and she crawled toward him, her sundress still bunched around her hips, her thighs slick and shining.
"I want to taste you," she said, and she didn't wait for permission. She swung a leg over his chest, straddling him, her knees on either side of his ribs, and then she shifted, twisting around until she was facing his feet, her thighs framing his head. The position made her feel exposed, open, the wet heat of her cunt inches from his mouth, the zipper of his jeans pressing against her back.
She heard him inhale—a sharp, hungry sound—and then his hands were on her hips, pulling her down, guiding her toward his face. "You're gonna kill me," he said, his voice muffled, and she felt the first brush of his tongue against her, tentative at first, then firmer, a long, slow stroke that made her gasp and grab for his belt.
She fumbled with the buckle, her fingers clumsy with want, and then she had it open, the zipper down, his cock springing free against her hand. She wrapped her fingers around him—thick, hot, already hard—and she heard him groan against her, the vibration of it traveling through her, making her hips press back against his mouth.
"You taste good," he said, his voice rough, his tongue circling her clit. "Keep going. Take me in your mouth."
She did. She lowered her head, her lips brushing the tip of him, and then she opened her mouth and took him in, her tongue tracing the length of his shaft, the salt of his skin, the sound of his moan muffled between her thighs. She felt him lick her deeper, his tongue sliding inside her, and she moaned around his cock, her hips grinding against his face, her own rhythm matching the movement of her mouth.
She pulled her mouth off him with a wet gasp, his cock still slick against her lips. Her chest heaved, her thighs trembling where they framed his head. "Turn around," she said, her voice rough. "I want to face you."
He slid out from under her, his tongue leaving her wet and empty. She twisted on the bed, her knees finding the mattress, and then he was there—reclining against her pillows, his cock standing dark and hard against his stomach. She crawled toward him, the ache between her legs a living thing, and swung a thigh over his hips.
He reached for her, his hands finding her waist, and she guided him with her own hand. The head of his cock pressed against her, wet and thick, and she sank down in one slow motion. She felt the stretch, the fullness, the way her body opened to take him. She heard his breath catch, felt his fingers dig into her hips.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Yeah."
She sat still for a moment, just feeling him inside her, the wine still warm in her blood, the weight of him deep and perfect. Then she began to move. A slow roll of her hips, a circle, a rise and fall that made her gasp.
His hands guided her, his thumb pressing into the soft dip of her waist. "Like that," he said. "Just like that."
She rode him, her head falling back, her hair brushing her shoulders. Her sundress was still bunched at her hips, a white wisp around her thighs. She rips the dress off. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room—wet, rhythmic, obscene. She felt the pressure building, low and swelling, the same ache she'd chased for months but sharper now, alive, with him beneath her.
"You feel so fucking good," he said, his voice strained, his eyes on her face.
She leaned forward, her hands on his chest, her breasts brushing his skin. "I'm close," she said, and the words came out broken. "I'm so close."
His hands found her ass, cupping her, guiding her faster. "Come for me," he said. "I want to feel it."
She pressed her thighs together around his hips, clenched around him, and the wave hit her. Her body arched, her mouth open in sound that was not quite a scream, and she was gone—her cunt spasming around his cock, her vision whiting out, her hands gripping his shoulders so hard she knew she'd leave marks. She heard him groan, felt his hips buck beneath her, and she rode it out, her own rhythm breaking and rebuilding, until she collapsed against his chest.
Her breath came in shudders. His hand was in her hair, gentle now, stroking the damp curls at her nape. She lay there, her cheek against his sternum, and listened to his heart hammering.
The wine had done its work. But the wanting—the wanting was hers alone, and it was not finished.
She pushed herself up, her thighs trembling. Her cunt was still slick with him, with herself, and she felt the slow drip as she lifted off his cock. He made a sound, a protest, but she was already turning, already positioning herself face-down on the bed, her knees spread, her ass in the air.
She looked over her shoulder at him. Her hair fell across her face, her eyes dark and hungry. "I want you to give me another one," she said, her voice low. "From the back."
His eyes traveled down her spine, over the curve of her hips, to where she was still wet and open. He reached for her, pulling her back toward him, and she felt his cock press against her again, hot and ready. "You don't have to ask twice," he said.
"Wait." Her voice came out steady, surprising even her. She shifted her knees wider, adjusted the angle of her hips, and the new position made her feel the stretch before he was even inside her. "Slow. I want to feel every inch."
He paused, just for a second, and she heard him breathe. Then his hands slid up her thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, and he pushed forward—slow, so slow she felt the head of his cock part her, the resistance, the give. She gasped, her fingers curling into the sheets. He stopped. "Like that?" His voice was rough, strained, and she could feel him holding himself in check.
She pressed back against him, taking him deeper, and the sound that left her mouth was a moan and a command rolled together. "Yes. Now pull out. Almost all the way."
He obeyed. She felt the drag of him leaving her, the emptiness brief and sharp, and then she pushed back again, faster this time, taking him to the hilt. The slap of his skin against hers was loud in the quiet room. "Again," she said. "Just like that."
He did it again. Slow withdrawal, hard thrust. Each time she set the rhythm, each time the angle shifted slightly—her hips tilting different, his hands adjusting to her movement. She was in control, and the feeling of it, the power of directing his body against hers, made her wetter, made her want more. His breathing was ragged behind her, his grip on her hips tightening with each thrust.
She looked over her shoulder, her hair falling across her face, her eyes finding his. "Faster," “harder”she said, and the word was a whip, a request that was not a request.
He drove into her, hard and fast, and she felt her body respond, her cunt clenching around him, the pleasure building again—not the slow burn from before, but a sharper, hotter edge. His fingers dug into her hips, his breath coming in grunts, and she let herself feel it, the full weight of him inside her, his rhythm matching hers.
She reached behind her, found his hand, pulled it forward to her stomach. His palm was hot against her skin, and she guided it lower, to the slick wetness where they were joined, where his cock slid in and out of her. "Feel that," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Feel how wet I am for you. How I'm taking every inch."
His fingers pressed against her belly, and he groaned, deep and low. "Fuck, I can feel you. I can feel you clenching around me."
She closed her eyes, let herself sink into the sensation. His hand on her belly, his cock deep inside her, the sound of their bodies meeting. The wine was still there, a hum in her blood, but this was sharper, clearer—a hunger she had not felt in months, directed and claimed.
"Don't come yet," she said, her voice breathless but firm. "I'm not done with you."
She felt the pressure building again, lower and sharper than before, a coil winding tight in her belly. His cock drove into her, each thrust pushing her closer to the edge, and the sound that left her mouth was a moan that started in her chest and grew into something raw and animal.
"Yes—fuck—right there—" Her voice broke, her fingers clawing at the sheets. She pressed back against him, taking him deeper, and the angle shifted, his cock hitting something inside her that made her vision blur.
He groaned behind her, his rhythm faltering. "I can't—fuck, you feel so good—"
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Don't you fucking stop."
His hands found her hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and he drove into her with a force that pushed her forward on the bed. She caught herself on her elbows, her ass in the air, and the new angle made his cock hit that spot again and again, each thrust a jolt of electricity through her body.
The coil in her belly tightened. Tighter. She felt herself clenching around him, felt the wetness soaking her thighs, and the pressure became unbearable—a wave building, swelling, cresting.
"Oh god—" The sound tore from her throat, a moan that was almost a scream, and she let go.
Her body arched, her back bowing as the climax crashed through her. She felt the release as a gush of wetness, hot and sudden, flooding out of her and soaking his cock, the sheets, her thighs. Her cunt spasmed around him, clenching and releasing in waves, and she heard herself cry out—a sound she didn't recognize, raw and broken and triumphant.
He kept thrusting through it, his rhythm ragged, his breath coming in harsh grunts. "Fuck—you're—" He couldn't finish the sentence. His hand slid down her belly, found the wetness, felt her still clenching, and he groaned, deep and animal.
She collapsed forward onto the mattress, her body shaking, her breath coming in sobs. The climax was still rippling through her, aftershocks rolling, and she felt the wetness cooling on her skin, felt his cock still hard inside her, felt the weight of six months of emptiness finally, finally releasing.
He pulled out slowly, and she felt the loss of him, the emptiness brief and strange. She heard his breath, ragged and uneven, and then his hand was on her back, gentle, tracing the line of her spine.
She turned her head, her cheek pressed to the damp sheet, and looked at him. His face was flushed, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and focused on her. "Come here," she said, her voice hoarse.
He lowered himself beside her, his body flush against hers, and she felt his arm slide under her head, pulling her against him. She lay there, her face pressed into his neck, her body still trembling, and she let herself feel it—the release, the satisfaction, the quiet hum of pleasure still lingering in her veins.
"That was—" he started.
"Don't," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Just don't."
She felt his hand stroke her hair, and she closed her eyes. The wine was still there, a warmth in her blood, but it was quieter now. The wanting was not quiet. It was a low hum, still present, still hungry. But for now, she was full.
She shifted against him, her body still humming with the aftershocks. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, and she could feel his heartbeat, still fast, still uneven. The wine was a warmth in her blood, muted now, but the wanting was not muted—it was a low thrum beneath her skin, satisfied but not spent.
She lifted her head. His eyes were half-closed, his breathing still rough, and she watched his chest rise and fall beneath her hand. She traced a finger down his sternum, felt the sweat on his skin, the heat of him.
"Hey," she said, her voice low.
He opened his eyes, looked at her. His hand found her hip, his thumb tracing a slow circle on the soft skin there.
She leaned forward. Her lips brushed his, featherlight, and she felt him still beneath her. She did not pull away.
She kissed him slow.
Her mouth opened against his, and she tasted herself on his lips—the salt of her skin, the musk of her arousal, the wine she'd drunk hours ago, still there, a ghost. He made a sound, a low groan, and his hand slid up her back, pulling her closer.
She deepened the kiss, her tongue sliding against his, and the taste was strange and intimate—her own body, her own want, returned to her through his mouth. She had never done this before, never tasted herself on someone else's tongue, and the intimacy of it made her breath catch.
Her hand found his jaw, holding him still, and she kissed him until she had to breathe again, until the world tilted and reformed around her. She pulled back, her forehead resting against his, and she felt his hand cup her cheek, his thumb tracing her cheekbone.
"That's—" He started, his voice rough.
"I know," she whispered. "I know."
She lay back against him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder, her hand on his chest. The taste of herself lingered on her tongue, wine-sweet and salt-bright, and she did not know what to do with it.
His arm tightened around her, pulling her closer, and she felt his lips press against her hair. "You okay?" he asked, his voice tentative, testing.
She closed her eyes. The wanting was still there, a low hum beneath her skin, but it was quieter now. Full, but not finished.
"I'm okay," she said. "I'm more than okay."
She felt his hand stroke her hair, slow and gentle, and she let herself sink into the warmth of him, the weight of his arm around her. The night was still young. The bottle was still half-full on the nightstand. And the taste of herself on his lips was still there, a promise she had not yet named.
She shifted, pressing closer, and he made a sound that was almost a laugh. "You're not done, are you?"
She opened her eyes, looked up at him through the dim light. "No," she said, her voice soft but certain. "Not yet."
His hand paused on her hair, then resumed its slow rhythm. "Good," he said.
She felt the low hum in her blood, the wanting that had not been quieted, and she pressed her lips to his chest, tasting the salt of his skin. It was not the same as tasting herself on him, but it was close. It was enough.
For now.