Early mornings

Lately I rise before the house stirs. The quiet gives me time—slow, unhurried time. In the pale light of the bathroom I lean against the sink, fingertips tracing the edge of white lace that clings to my hips. Stockings hug my thighs. I slip a hand inside the panties and find the heat already waiting. My breath fogs the mirror. The first slow circles pull a soft sound from my throat. The motion grows firmer, surer; the lace darkens. I watch my own face as the pleasure tightens, lips parting, lashes fluttering. When the rush crests, it rolls through me in warm waves. After, my fingers are slick. I straighten the thin straps, smooth the bra cups over my breasts, then step into the day already glowing.