White party

Aletta Ocean returns from the white party, high heels in hand. The quiet apartment feels too still after the champagne, the music, the looks that followed her all night. She drops the shoes by the door and keeps moving, past the bedroom, straight to the living room couch. Her white dress rides high on her thighs when she sits. She doesn’t turn on the lights. The city glow through the window is enough. She leans back, legs spread just a little, and lets her hand slip under the hem. Her fingers find warm skin, then the thin strip of lace between her legs. She presses, slow, feeling the damp heat there, and a soft sound slips from her throat. The party isn’t over. Not yet. Not while she can still see their faces behind her closed eyes and feel how wet those glances made her. Her fingers move faster, then slower, teasing herself the way she wished someone else had. The dress stays on. The stockings stay on. Only the lace is pushed aside so she can touch herself deeper, hips lifting off the cushion. Every stroke pulls another memory closer—his hand on her lower back, the way his eyes dropped to her cleavage, the low laugh that promised more than words. She comes with her free hand clutching the armrest, thighs shaking, breath sharp in the dark. When it’s over she stays sprawled, dress rumpled, fingers glistening, wondering if any of them will call tomorrow.