She lies on the sofa, one hand shoved into her leggings, two fingers working inside her, slow and slick. Her breath stutters, chest rising with each pulse of pressure.

Wet sounds fill the room. Her face is blank. Only her hips move, shallow thrusts, grinding into her palm.

She imagines him walking in. No words. Just his gaze on her. Her body exposed, fingers buried, helpless.

She hears the click of the door. Footsteps, imagined or real, she can’t tell. Her body believes anyway.

She cums, sharply, silently. Her eyes open.

Of course, the room is empty.
It always is.