She waits for winter the way some women wait to be fucked properly—
not gently.

Not with hope tucked inside her ribs like prayer,
but with hunger coiled behind her teeth,
skin stripped of sentiment,
mouth ready for the burn.

There is something about December that tastes like him.
Not his cologne or the shape of memory,
but the ache he left behind in her thighs,
the weight of his hands wrapped around her wrists
as the first frost kissed the corners of her windows.

He always came back with the cold.
When her breath fogged the air and her body turned brittle with wanting.
When the silence stretched too long
and her fingers dipped between her legs,
seeking something that sounded like him.
Felt like him.
Filled like him.

She never called it loneliness.
It was devotion,
desperate and dripping.

She would part her legs like confession,
knees bent in invitation,
hips rising to meet the ghost of him.
Sometimes she moaned his name into the dark
as if that alone could summon him.

She was a prayer answered in sweat.
A liturgy of need.
A psalm sung in pulses and whimpers.

And still, she waited.

Because some women are made for summer—
sunkissed, golden-limbed, effortless.
But she was frostbitten and feverish,
sheathed in velvet and bruises,
the kind of woman who bloomed
only when he split her open.

She left the windows cracked each night.
Let the cold come in.
Let the dark fill her lungs.
Let the ache stretch wide again
until he returned
to take what was his.

© Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.