He drops a thought—
casual, cruel,
filth-laced and feather-soft.
Just enough to spark,
to catch the matchstick wick of her need
and leave her burning.

Now she’s awake,
not with clarity,
but with craving.
Sheets cling to her thighs,
slick with the heat he left behind.
She squirms, restless,
pussy throbbing, empty,
his voice playing on loop in her head—
a low, possessive growl:
I know how wet you get when I talk like that.

He’s home.
Probably asleep.
Oblivious.
And she’s soaked through,
grinding into the mattress,
needing something—anything—
to mimic the stretch of his cock,
the slap of his hips,
the fingers he’d curl inside her
just to make her scream his name.

Her hand slides lower—
not in hesitation,
but in defeat.
Because he’s not here to ruin her,
so she ruins herself in his name.
Fingers buried deep,
other hand fisting the sheets,
moaning into her own palm
because no one should hear this—
not the begging,
not the filthy little whimpers,
not the desperate way she comes
just imagining his weight holding her down
and his words marking her deeper
than anything else ever could.

And she—
wrecked,
soaked,
still aching—
curses the way his voice
can thread through her body
like a command,
even in silence.

Copyright © Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.