It doesn't satisfy anymore.
I tell myself it will. I tell myself the warmth will break, that the breathless edge will soften when I give in. I move the same way. My hands find me. My breath catches, stumbles, shatters.
The release comes easily now.
Too easily.
It spills over sharp and thin. My body curls, the sound in my throat is soft and familiar, but when it fades – when I pull back, still flushed, still warm – it's already gone. The hunger underneath stays alive. Low. Hollow.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands loose, breath slowing. The ache doesn't fade. The restlessness doesn't ease. My skin feels too tight, too sharp, too unfinished.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly, but the quiet doesn't settle.
Later – hours later – I find myself reaching again. The same motion. The same press. I don't even hesitate. My body follows the shape of it before my mind catches up.
It's the same. Quick. Sharp. Fading too soon.
I lie still after, staring at the ceiling, my fingertips resting soft over the curve of my stomach. The breath in my chest is thin.
It's not enough.
I don't know if it ever was.
The craving comes back faster now.
By morning, it's there – before I've even dressed, before the day has settled. A low pulse, soft but insistent. The press of fabric against my skin feels sharper, the way the air moves over me feels closer.
I shift without meaning to. My hands stray – brushing the curve of my side, the line of my waist – not deliberately. Just enough to feel the ache stir beneath it.
I try to ignore it.
At the café, I catch myself crossing my legs tighter than before. The way my leggings cling when I move. The warmth hums low – steady, patient, but brighter now. The pull of it sharpens every time I shift, every time my thighs press, every time breath catches shallow without warning.
My fingertips drift to the edge of my sleeve. To the hem of my coat. Nothing overt. Nothing seen.
But I feel it.
I think: *I could.*
The idea isn't jarring. It's quiet. Simple. I could. Here. Now.
I hold still. I sip my tea. My breath is shallow, my chest too tight.
The craving hums on.
I don't touch right away.
The house is quiet. The light is soft. The craving is sharp enough to burn, but I hold it without moving.
I stand in front of the mirror. Fully dressed. The fabric hugs the new curves of me – thighs fuller, hips rounder, the faint pull of fabric between my legs. My breath comes faster before I've even moved.
I don't need to touch to feel it.
The warmth is alive beneath skin and breath and fabric. The way my body looks. The way I feel inside it. I let my fingers trace lightly over my side, over the softness of my hip, but I don't press. I don't chase it.
I could. I want to.
But I hold still.
The hunger sharpens. My thighs press together on their own, the smallest shiver running through me. I watch myself in the mirror – lips parted, breath uneven – and I let the ache bloom without release.
It hums. It burns. It doesn't fade.
I carry it with me into sleep. Unbroken.
And something in me wants it that way.