I dial her back with clumsy fingers. She picks up fast.
“Caroline. Thank goodness.”
I apologize, stumbling over the words, telling her I overslept, I got thrown off after last night, that I’m sorry for leaving her alone.
“No worries,” she answers, and I picture her in the shop adjusting August’s herb shelves by herself. “It’s slow. No one’s out. The new apprentice was hit hard by the surge too. Everyone’s laying low. Just take the day. Are you really okay?”
I say yes even though I’m absolutely not okay.
She wishes me well and hangs up.
I send a quick message to my mother, asking if she’s all right, and then I collapse onto the sofa with a sigh that sounds like it comes from somewhere deep and desperate.
Then an electric jolt moves through me.
I choke on a startled sound.
My hand flies to my chest and I curl inward. The sensation ripples down my ribs, down my stomach, lower, and I hate how good it feels. Heat coils like a fist. My pulse hammers against my palms.
This is a heat.
There’s no mistaking it.
But why now?
I try to breathe through it. I tell myself it’ll pass, that my suppressants are in my system. I try to focus on something else. Anything else. But all I can think about is the tight ache buildinginside me and the slick warmth settling between my thighs. The cushion under me feels too soft, too inviting.
I press my legs together and the pressure nearly knocks me out of my own body. A whimper catches in my throat. I swallow it down and grip the sofa harder, nails digging into the worn fabric.
“This will pass,” I whisper. “This will pass.”
My voice cracks. I don’t believe myself.
Another pulse hits.
I gasp, hips lifting without permission.
Thistle jumps onto the coffee table and stares at me like I’m concerning him more than usual. I wave a hand at him, but my palm trembles. My whole body trembles.
Then my hand drifts downward. I don’t even realize I’m doing it at first.
It slides past my ribs, down my stomach, into the waistband of my sleep shorts.
My fingers brush against my wetness, and the contact sends a fresh wave of fire through my core. I freeze, breath hitching in my chest, as if acknowledging what I’m doing will make it all too real. But the ache pulses insistently, demanding attention, and I can’t ignore it anymore.
I hook my thumb into the elastic of my shorts, shoving them down my thighs in one frantic motion. The cool air hits my exposed skin, but it does nothing to quench the burning need building inside me.
I spread my legs wider, the cushion beneath me shifting slightly under my weight. My hand returns to where I need it most, fingers sliding through the slickness that’s already gathered between my folds.
I’m so wet, so ready, that they glide easily, parting my lips with a soft, obscene sound.
A low moan escapes my lips as I circle my clit, the swollen nub throbbing under my touch. Each stroke builds the pressure, coiling tighter in my belly, and I arch my back off the sofa, chasing the sensation.
Thistle meows from the coffee table, his eyes wide and unblinking, but I barely register him.
My world narrows to the heat radiating from my pussy, the way my inner walls clench around nothing, begging to be filled.
I dip two fingers inside myself, gasping at how easily they sink in, coated in my arousal. I pump them slowly at first, feeling the stretch, the way my body grips them greedily. But slow isn’t enough. I need more, faster, harder. My hips buck up to meet my hand, the rhythm turning urgent as I fuck myself with my fingers.
