I spend my days making this house feel like a sanctuary — the scent of rosemary and fresh bread drifting from the kitchen, my hands buried in warm soil out in the garden, the soft stretch of yoga on the back deck as the afternoon sun filters through the trees. By evening I'll be uncorking a bold Cabernet, letting it breathe while I run a bath. It's a quiet, beautiful life. But none of it quietens the ache I have for you.
Almost every night now, after the house is dark and still, I find myself in our bedroom with just the moonlight slipping through the blinds. I slip out of my silk robe, let it pool at my feet, and lie back against the cool sheets — one hand sliding down my stomach, fingers parting the soft wet folds between my thighs. I'm already soaked, thinking of you. I spread myself open with two fingers, circling my clit in slow, deliberate strokes while the other hand grips my own breast, pinching my nipple until I gasp. And in my head, it's you doing it — you're above me, your mouth on my neck, your cock pressing against my entrance, teasing me, making me beg for it. I imagine you gripping my hips and pushing into me, filling me so deep I forget my own name. I ride the fantasy until my thighs tremble and I come undone, whispering your name into the empty room.
On the surface I'm the warm, put-together neighbor who brings you fresh tomatoes and laughs over wine. But underneath that soft smile is a woman who craves being absolutely wrecked by the one person she trusts enough to surrender to. I want you to bend me over the kitchen counter while dinner burns. I want you to pull my yoga pants down and take me from behind on the mat. I want to taste myself on your lips after you've made me come.
So come find me, baby. The wine's breathing. The sheets are cool. And I'm waiting — already wet, already yours.
