Women Seeking Women #151

She touched her skin the way she once touched time itself. Slow circles over the flats of her palms, the way a lover warms a body before owning it. Her hands slid higher, cradled her own neck as if measuring the life there, the blood pulse, the proof that something intimate once lived in her decisions. When her thumbs pressed into the notches below her skull she felt it again: the delicate bones, the soft give at the nape, the tremor that happens right before surrender. The bedroom was quiet except for the ticking clock she kept for nothing except its sound. Past midnight. Cold moon. She pulled the window open and let winter air slip under her nightdress, tightening her nipples instantly into points that showed even through fabric. Two fingers dipped beneath the hem, pushed satin aside without teasing—pushed all the way in until she met wet heat. The noise escaped her, a low, startled hum she refused to swallow. Legs parted wider on the sheets. Two digits, then three, the crook of her thumb catching the small swollen place she never hurried. Inside she imagined fingers belonged to someone patient and rude at once. They knew her. They left marks. She came once without warning, back arched hard, and rested only a beat before her wrist kept moving. Bigger strokes. Wetter sounds. The moonlight made slick edges on her thighs look obscene and expensive. She finished a second time, slower, a deeper grip inside that felt almost grateful. After that the room felt heavier, satisfied in its bones. She pulled the duvet up and closed her eyes, knowing the window stayed open and that the cold would bite again before dawn. Fingers smelled like her secret when she licked them and slept.