“Touching myself.”

My heart beats in my throat. I’m wet from just her words, her quiet sounds, the liquid shine on her fingers when she pulls her hands from her panties and says, “You made me wait so long, Amy.”

I’ve always been good at sex, knowing what my partner wants and needs, how far to take things, and when to stop. With Sophie, I know. But then I turn my back for a few seconds and she starts to finger herself on her bed. So, also I know nothing. And I like it a lot more than I ever thought I would.

My nipples push through the stretch fabric of my top as I walk, on legs that feel far too unstable, to the edge of her bed. I wrap one hand around her ankle, pushing her legs farther apart.

“Take those off.” I nod to her panties.

She stares up at me. “Take that off first,” she says, mimicking my careful tone.

I shake my head, spread her legs a little wider. “I promise I’ll make it good, Sophie. Do you trust me?”

She pauses for a moment like she’s really considering it then she nods once and pushes her panties down her thighs. I help her once they get past her knees, dropping the sopping wet fabric on the floor at the end of the bed.

“Okay,” I say, pulling her legs apart again. “What are you waiting for?”

She makes a whining sound. “I want you to do it.”

“I am touching you.” I squeeze her ankle. “And you were doing it so good, baby,” I say softly.

A small, proud smile teases her lips.

“You make me so hot when you fuck yourself for me,” I whisper. “Show me again. So I know how to keep you happy.”

There’s danger in words like these. They speak to a future where Sophie has not rightfully tossed me aside. But I’m past the point of trying to pretend I’m not too far-gone for her.

She starts at her collarbone. Her fingers trail along the dip and curve to the space between her breasts. She brushes along the soft skin beneath. The phantom feeling tingles along the backs of my own knuckles. Sophie circles her nipples, then takes herself in hand, plucking at the tight buds. She watches herself in the same mirror I did earlier and I want to scream out the window that my lover knows how hot she is. My lover can’t look away and neither can I.

Soon, though, playing isn’t enough. Her hand moves between her legs and she slips two fingers into her pussy. Her head falls back and she releases an anguished moan.

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

“That it’s you,” she says, without hesitation. She paints her vulva with her wetness, draws her fingers in tight circles around her clit.

“You’re pretending it’s me touching you?”

She nods, her eyes clenched shut.

“Are you going to come?”

She shakes her head. “Not unless it’s you,” she says, but her voice wavers, high and tight like the last time she came all over my face.