Waiting

She sits in the kitchen alone, legs parted in a short skirt that barely covers anything. No snacks, no coffee, no fruit on the counter. She wants a man's hands. Wants him inside her. But he isn't here, so she does it herself. Her fingers slip beneath the hem, finding warm skin. She rubs slow circles over her clit, breath catching as the ache builds. The chair creaks when she leans back, spreading wider. A soft moan escapes. She pushes two fingers in, then three, moving with steady purpose. Her other hand cups a breast, pinching the nipple through thin fabric. She comes hard, hips jerking, the empty room filled only with the sound of her breathing and the wet slide of skin on skin.