In the dark I taste the absence.  Cold air trickles in the window tasting of winter’s fading kiss and Spring’s withheld touch, all damp dirt and bitten off promises.  The absence of light is as complete behind my eyelids as without and as heavy as her absence in my bed.

I want.

I twist.  My sheets knot and restrict; accidental bindings mimicking her intentional ones.  A fold catches my fingers on their path down my own stomach and I pause, waiting.  I can feel eyes on me, heavy, hungry and demanding.  My neck arches, presenting the delicate flesh for teeth and tongue.  The duvet slides down, dragging over my collarbone, revealing the slope of my breast to. . .no one.

I want.

My eyes open.  There’s no one watching me in the dark.  My lover sleeps somewhere, oblivious to my aching need.  The house shifts and creaks, the slow respiration of something living.  The night reaches in, stroking my bared flesh with a cold, ethereal finger.  My exhale carries on it the thin sound of frustration.

I want.

With a sigh I surrender.  My mind turns inwards, tunneling into the hot, wanton core of memories.  My skin flushes, a ripple of heat, a rush of wet.  ‘Touch yourself.’ Her whisper, the memory of it, curls through me, a beckoning finger.  I crave what it offers, the release of pleasure, the keen edge of solitude dulled for a span of heartbeats in the cry of ecstasy. I forget she’s absent and feel her hot gaze watching me.  I find myself just as slick and hot as she would.  My moan ripples into the empty room.

I want.

One by one I slide my fingers into my cunt.  One by one, a penetration carried out with all the concentration I would rather bend on my lover.  My breath escapes in a pleading mewl at the third finger and a grunt at the fourth.  Then.  Then.  The thrusts begin, marked against my own heart’s tempo.

I want.

Want.

Want.

Want.

I’m lost deep in my own fantasy when night’s cold mouth is replaced by one wet and hot.  Is my imagination really so good to paint so convincingly?

I don’t care.

I want.

A hand presses over mine and thrusts my own fingers deeper.  The sound that escapes my throat is feral and wanton and bounces around the room.  “Don’t stop.”  A voice.

Her voice.

She slides two fingers, pushing into me, stretching me further.  My back pulls into an arch and she captures my orgasm as it flies from my lips, feeding on it, devouring it.

My body convulses, taken by surprise and my own complicity, shaking and trembling until she presses my hand against my pubis, hard and tight, her body covering mine.  Night slides away, the cold displaced by her warmth, her flesh, and I drown in the kiss I have been craving.  My fingers folded into my cunt, her fingers gripping me, pinning me to my own bed, a Luna Moth caught by moonlight.

“Again,” she whispers against my cheek, a warm lick of air.

My answer flicks out, ragged and desperate.

I want.

“Yes.”