Funny how you never think of her until you’re alone. Funny how your best friend is just your best friend until it’s two a.m. and you can’t sleep for the third night in a row; heat pools in your belly and you’ve never wanted her more. Funny how you used to think you just liked to hear her voice. See her smile. Touch her hair. Funny how the word “platonic” never felt like some stupid promise before now.
You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and try to stop the thoughts. As you let out a heavy sigh, the restlessness gets to you again. Maybe you just miss her.
Your hand travels down your chest and you scrape your knuckles across your crotch. A gasp leaves your lips. The light is low. Shadows play across the wall as the sun sets late and the colours outside fade from pink to blue to black. You bite your lip as your fingers spread out, still over your leggings, just teasing.
She would be careful, hesitant. Her touch feather-light on your body. Her palm against your breast, light at first, then squeezing. You grunt and press your fingers against yourself. Giving in never made you feel so guilty before. It never felt wrong to think about her for just a second, look at her lips for just a little too long. You’d just daydream about waking up in bed together. She would kiss you, nuzzle your neck, and whisper, just relax, baby.
You swipe your thumb under the waistband of your leggings and jolt at the cold. Her hands are warm. You work both hands under your shirt, kneading your breasts to warm your fingers. You arch off the bed, your body begging for friction, but you refuse to give in to the urge and turn over. She would be on top. She would press kisses down your sternum, her hair tickling your skin, her hands tight against your ribs.
Don’t worry about a thing, baby. Let me take care of you.
You dip your warmed hand under your pants and play with the hem of your panties. You imagine her hesitating as she slips your underwear down. She looks up at you, excited and worried – you’re about to ruin the friendship.
Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve always been yours.
Your fingers graze lower. You swipe your thumb across your clit and a shock goes through your body. Her lips pressed there. That smile you love pressed against your skin. You press a finger inside and groan. You imagine her pleasure at finding you wet and willing. You add another finger, moving slowly, knowing she would test the waters even if you begged her to move faster.
She’s slow. After all, she’s been torturing you for years and, right now, you’re sure she knows it. You twist your fingers, biting your lip to stop from screaming. With your other hand, you scramble to reach your vibrator. A book and a water bottle crash to the floor. You don’t care. Your hand wraps around the vibrator and you sigh in relief. You imagine her smiling at you, acquiescing to your cries for mercy and pressing her tongue against your clit.
You shudder with the vibrations and twist your fingers further inside yourself. You test your hole with a third finger, prodding for access as you turn up the vibe. The steady buzz calms you and you imagine her humming against your skin, enjoying the way you taste.
Tension builds. You squeeze around yourself, moving your fingers faster as you flick up the power. A gasp escapes as your fingers curl into the right spot and, suddenly, the world goes black. There’s just her. Her lips on you. Her fingers in you. Her hair tickling your bellybutton and that smile, that shit-eating grin, glad to see how much you like it.
I’ve got you, baby.
The orgasm crashes over you, sending shivers down your spine. You pant. Sweat slicks your forehead. You turn down the vibe just a little, trying to draw out the feeling, and bite your lip to feel something more as the fantasy fades. Slowly, you slip one finger out and then the others.
Your breathing fills the room, echoing in the small space.
Your phone goes off, nearly scaring you out of your skin. Her name lights up the screen. Your heart pounds. You hold your breath, fight to steady it, and reach out with shaking hands. “Hey,” you whisper into the darkness.
“Hey, baby,” she says, her voice rough and gravelly with the night. “Can’t sleep.”
“Me either.” You breathe out, your heart in your throat.
Her voice still echoes in your ears. Don’t worry about a thing.Ingrid Simson. Click Here To Read This Article From It's Original Source