Chapter Text
You wake up sore.
The ache lives deep in your muscles, low in your spine, lingers thick between your thighs. Every small movement under the covers echoes with the memory of her. The rhythm of her hips, the grip of her hands, her voice in your ear… all of it still clings to your skin.
But you don’t even try to pretend you don’t love it.
You stretch gently, wincing a little as you sit up. The marks from her belt are faint now, barely visible, but the way your body twinges when you walk? That stays.
It’s almost funny, in a way. You’re studying for the hardest exam of the semester, written by the woman who did this to you.
You make yourself coffee, toast a piece of bread, and sit at your desk with the study guide you printed weeks ago, pages and pages you’ve already memorized.
But you open it anyway.
Because if you don’t ace this exam tomorrow, it will do more than just bruise your grade. It’ll bruise your pride. You want to do well for yourself, sure. But more than anything, you want to do well for her.
You reread a paragraph about 19th-century social reform movements. Your thighs clench involuntarily under the desk.
You can still feel the shape of her strap.
You shift in your chair and force yourself to focus.
You’re not going to touch yourself today. You’ve decided. Not until after the exam. No distractions.
But her voice still rings in your head.
‘Mommy’s gonna keep using that tight little cunt until you’re sore. Until you've learned your lesson.’
You flip the page. Underlined terms blur at the edges.
You press your thighs together, harder this time.
God, she knew exactly what she was doing.
You’re not sure what you’re more desperate for. To make her proud? Or to disappoint her so she does it again?
However, you keep studying. Every answer feels drenched in memory, in want, in the ghost of her mouth against your ear whispering, ‘Good girl.’
And you keep repeating the facts like a mantra. Because tomorrow, when you hand that paper in, you want her to look at you and know.
You didn’t just survive her exam.
You nailed it.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll get a reward for that too.
You’ve spent hours at your desk by now. Messy, over-highlighted notes and textbooks are scattered all over the table. Your back aches. Your coffee has gone cold, the ache between your legs has not.
You stretch your arms overhead, cracking your knuckles, and sigh.
But you’ve made it through nearly all the topics twice.
You deserve a break.
And you miss her.
With a frustrated huff, you push your chair back and crawl onto your bed, flopping down face-first into the pillow for a second before rolling onto your back. But that only makes it worse. The shift makes the throbbing between your thighs impossible to ignore.
Your phone is in your hand before you’ve even decided to pick it up. Your thumb hovers over your messages app for half a second before instinct takes over.
You open her chat, stare at the blank field, and bite your lip. Then you start typing.
My brain is fried and every inch of my cunt is aching.
Thanks for that.
You stare at the screen, hovering a second, nerves flickering. But then you hit send anyway. Your legs curl under you on the bed, and even that feels like a bad idea.
Her reply comes fast.
Is that a complaint, honey?
You exhale, a sly smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
I never said that.
I just hope I can sit through the exam tomorrow without wincing too much.
Think I’ll pass?
You wait, watching the typing bubble appear.
You better.
Or I’ll have to come up with new ways to punish you over break. Long-distance or not.
Your breath stalls.
You can practically hear her say it. That low, deliberate tone. That teasing edge she always layers over the threat of consequence.
Your thighs clench on reflex.
Should I keep studying… or start packing something for that punishment?
You grin to yourself as you hit send, but your heart knocks a little too hard against your ribs.
She takes a second longer this time.
Might want to pack something battery operated.
And we’ll see about the rest.
You blink. Stare at the words. Then huff out a quiet, startled laugh.
I don’t actually own anything like that.
Another pause.
You don’t?
You hesitate. Your face heats. Is this embarrassing? Kind of. But it’s the truth.
Nope.
Is that weird?
You see the typing bubble. Then it disappears. Then it’s back.
Not weird. Just surprising.
I would've expected a girl with a mouth like yours to know how to take care of herself better.
You suck in a breath. Your face heats even more.
Oh.
That hits lower than you expect it to.
Your stomach flips as your thumbs hover over the keyboard. Then you type.
Guess I was waiting for the right teacher.
You watch the bubble appear, vanish, then flicker back again.
Be careful what you ask for, sweetheart. That might get you more than you’re ready for.
You stare at the screen, heart in your throat, grinning like an idiot. Before you can think of a response, a second text comes in.
Anyway, I suggest you study now. Unless you want me to think you don’t take my exam seriously.
You straighten on instinct, pulse still thrumming under your skin.
Yes, ma’am.
See you tomorrow.
You toss your phone to the side and pull your notes into your lap, determined to focus. But it’s a hopeless case.
The outline of her smirk is still on your mind. The thought of her reading your texts in bed, proud of the mark she's left inside you, lingers way too vividly. But unlike the hickeys, no one can see them, not even you. You can only feel them. Branded and reminded with every inch you move that you're hers to break.
You keep trying to shift back into studying. Focus on your note, your highlighted dates, your jottings about the transformation of gender roles and industrial development.
But your focus keeps drifting.
You wonder if she’s thinking about you too.
Probably.
After all…
She’s the one who lit the match.
And you’re the one still burning.
It’s Friday. The last day before winter break. And the only thing standing between you and her is the exam and a room full of students.
You sit at your desk, pen in hand, paper in front of you. But the rhythm your heart thuds in has nothing to do with the questions on that paper.
The classroom is quiet, save for the soft scratch of pens against paper and the occasional sighs of stressed students. But none of that really registers.
Because she’s there. Just a few feet away from you. She's sitting at her desk, calm as ever, legs crossed, one hand resting on a stack of untouched papers. She’s dressed completely in black, and she looks completely unbothered. But her eyes scan the room with an intimidatingly precise assessment, and when they land on you, they stay.
There’s a look there. The faintest smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. And something in her eyes, something sharp that tells you she’s thinking about it too.
About Wednesday night.
About the way you were shaking under her as she spanked you, muttering answers against the desk. The way she fucked you from behind until your body forgot how to move without her guiding it. Until you were sore everywhere.
Her gaze says it without saying it. You should know the answers, sweetheart.
But you shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not here, not now.
But your body hasn’t gotten the message.
Every question blurs. Every word floats. Every glance up at her feels like an exposed nerve.
You haven’t seen her since the night in her office.
But you didn't need to. Because you still feel her under your skin. Her voice in your head. Her hands on your body like muscle memory.
And now you’re in her classroom, writing her exam, pretending you’re just another student, like she instructed you to.
But you’re not.
And she knows that.
You lower your head and force your hand to move. The sooner you finish, the sooner this charade ends.
When time is finally called, the professor rises from her chair, the clicking of her heels filling the silence as she walks between the rows, collecting exam sheets. And then she stops at your desk.
You expect her to just grab your paper and walk past like you're nothing more to her than just anyone in this room. But to your surprise, she doesn't. For a moment she just stands there in front of you, eyes meeting yours from above, the faintest flicker in them, something knowing.
“Stay behind for a moment,” she says, putting on that composed and direct voice. “I have something for you to work through over break.”
You nod, masking the warmth that sparks low in your chest. “Yes, professor.”
She takes your paper, then continues collecting the remaining exams before walking back to the front.
The rest of the class begins to pack up, words getting exchanged about exam content, footsteps shuffling toward the door.
You stay seated.
The professor sets the stack of exams down on her desk and removes her glasses with a quiet sigh, placing them beside the papers.
As the room empties further, you walk up to her. Agatha steps around the desk to lean back against it at the front, crossing her arms. You stop in front of her, leaving enough distance to look innocent, at least to the naked eye.
Finally, the last student has slipped out the door, and the room shifts into silence.
Her gaze lingers. Heavy. Familiar.
A quiet beat passes before she speaks.
“How was it?”
You shrug, tilting your head slightly. “Well… people weren’t kidding when they said the Witch’s exams are brutal. But… I had a very effective study session the other day.”
Her eyes spark just briefly and then darken at the corners.
“Glad to hear that.”
You lift a brow. “Do you actually want me to read something over winter break?”
Her lips twitch. “No,” she says casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I just wanted an excuse to talk to you alone.”
Your heart stutters, but you cover it with a quiet, amused huff. “Didn’t think you needed one anymore.”
She doesn’t answer right away. She just looks at you for a beat longer, her gaze flickering over your face.
She shifts slightly against the desk. “When do you leave?” she asks finally, her voice a little lower now.
“Tomorrow morning,” you say, keeping your tone light even though your chest tightens just saying it out loud.
A short silence settles between you. Not awkward, just thick.
“Alright,” she says simply after a moment, pushing herself off the desk. “Come with me.”
You blink. “Where?”
Agatha straightens, already reaching for the stack on the desk behind her. Her voice is casual. Too casual. Like she’s deliberately keeping it that way.
“My office.”
And just like that, something low in your stomach curls itself tight again.
You swallow and follow her out the door, your pulse picking up with every step.
She doesn’t say much when you both step inside her office. The door shuts softly behind you, and the air alters immediately. Then Agatha quickly locks the door. And the soft sound of the lock echoes through the quiet loud enough to make your skin prickle.
Then her eyes find yours. Still burning.
And she doesn’t speak. She just walks toward you with that same steady, calm stride that always makes it hard to breathe. Her hand finds your elbow with a light touch and guides you toward her desk.
She doesn’t push you. There's no need to. You let her lead you without question.
She lifts you up onto the edge like this is where you belong. Like you’re hers to arrange.
You sit there, legs swinging slightly. Waiting.
And she just… looks at you.
For a moment, that’s all she does. Her gaze lingers. There’s no smirk, no command. Just a softness in her face that only makes the tension worse.
Then her hand lifts. She tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with that careful touch she never talks about.
You feel it in your chest.
Her fingers trail lower. From your jaw to your throat, over your collarbone, down your arm. Then along your thigh. Slow and barely there. Just a brush.
You squirm, just a little.
And that makes her smile.
“I have a meeting in twenty,” Agatha says finally, her voice low and warm. “But I wanna say goodbye properly.”
Your heart stutters. Your stomach flips.
“How?” you ask, already breathless, anticipation curling low.
Her mouth tilts into a slow, deliberate smile. “Do you think you deserve a reward, pet?”
You blink, pulse kicking up. “Is that a trick question?”
Her eyes glint. “So… you don’t think you do?”
“No, I didn’t say that,” you scramble quickly. “I think I do.”
Her smile deepens, her voice dropping lower. “And what for exactly?”
You lick your lips, trying to keep your voice steady. “For studying so well for you.”
“Mm-hm.” Her fingers skim lightly over your waist, already making your skin burn through the fabric. “I agree. I think you deserve a little reward today… for being so good… for making mommy so proud.” Her next words hit soft and dark against your ear. “Would you like that, pet?”
Your breath catches. The heat of the anticipation blooms all over your skin.
“Yes,” you breathe. “ Please.”
Her smile curls at the corner, indulgent and pleased, like she’s been waiting to hear you beg for it.
And then her hands are already fumbling with the button of your jeans, moving fast, no hesitation.
“Good girl.”
Then, hurriedly, her fingers slip inside your jeans. They stroke over the front of your underwear. You suck in a breath, your hips twitching forward instinctively, needing more. But she doesn’t give in.
“Mommy’s gonna give you something to hold you over,” she murmurs, gaze still locked on yours, fingers still moving slowly. “So while you're gone, you’ll have something fresh to replay.”
Her fingers slip beneath your panties, finally brushing where you need her, sliding through the wetness already building there. The contact is maddening. It's light, controlled, a tease built on everything she already knows about your body.
You gasp, but the sound catches in your throat.
Agatha tilts her head. There’s that look again. Her mouth curves, not quite into a smile. Just knowledge. Power.
She watches your face the entire time, like she’s savoring every little reaction. The way your eyes flutter, the way your mouth falls open, the way your body moves toward her on instinct.
You try to steady your breath, but you fail.
“Well,” you murmur, breathless, “I can think of a few other things already burned into my memory.”
Agatha hums, eyes half-lidded, lips curved with satisfaction.
“There’s that one, where you ate me out and fingered me in your bed for the first time,” you continue, voice low, throat catching on heat. “Where you sat on my face and came all over it. Made it slick with your wetness… That was so fucking hot.”
She exhales slowly, her eyes darkening. “Keep talking,” she purrs, not even trying to hide how much she’s enjoying this.
She increases the pressure of her fingers, making it harder for you to form words. You bite your lip to suppress a groan, but you don’t stop talking.
“When I got on my knees for you in the shower. Made you feel so good. Or then the next day you– g od – when you fingered me on your couch and told me how you'd fill me up with your strap…”
Her fingers move faster now, like a reward. “Hmm,” she says, like she’s reliving every tiny detail of those shared memories.
You shift slightly against her. “And of course there’s the one where you spanked my ass over your desk. Where you let me ride your strap and then punished me by taking me from behind, fucking me so deep I forgot how to think.”
A low, pleased sound slips from her throat. A sound that runs straight through your bones.
“You know, I’m still a little sore from that,” you add.
“Oh yeah?” Her voice dips lower, rougher. “Good. Next time, I’ll make sure it lasts even longer.”
Then she pushes her fingers inside you.
No warning. No easing in. She just fills you like she owns the space, like she's simply taking back what’s hers.
Your mouth falls open around a gasp, your body clenching instantly around her. She still watches your face closely, her eyes drinking in every twitch, every shift, every hitched breath. Memorizing it.
And she smiles again.
But it's not smug or cruel. Just knowing .
Like this is exactly how she wants to memorize you.
You shift your hips to give her better access. Then you hook your leg around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer, your need outweighing any remaining self-control.
“Fuck, yes,” you moan, both hands clutching at the edge of the desk, your head tilting back.
Agatha lifts her free hand and holds a single finger to your lips to still you. She leans in closer, her breath brushing your neck.
“Shh. You gotta be quiet, hon.” Her voice is low, calm, laced with something dark. “Don’t want the whole department hearing how easy you fall apart under my touch.”
Then, her hand slides lower, down from your lips to your throat. She places her veined hand there, one finger at a time finding its place. She squeezes with just the lightest pressure, but it’s enough to evoke a new sensation rippling in your stomach, to make a whiny, muffled noise escape from your lips.
And Agatha smirks again. Wordlessly commenting on your desperation. She doesn't say it out loud, doesn't need to. You hear it anyway.
Her fingers curl deep inside you at the same time, dragging strangled noises from you. You bite down hard on your lip, fighting to keep it in.
“Those pretty sounds you make,” she continues slowly, leaning back in, her mouth brushing the shell of your ear, “they’re just for me, babygirl. All mine. All mommy's.”
You whimper, and she smirks. You can feel it in the heat of her breath.
“Now I'll give you another memory to touch yourself to.”
Your breath catches. “You assume I will?”
Her smile curves against your skin, sharper now. “Oh, I know you will.”
Then her fingers curl again. A perfect pressure against that spot inside you that turns your mind blank, and your legs twitch in response, dragging out another gasp.
“But you'll call me,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, every syllable slipping under your skin. “Won't you?”
You nod, breathless. No space for hesitation.
“Yes, mommy.”
She hums, pleased, then leans in just close enough to let her mouth brush your cheek. Not quite a kiss, but almost. And somehow more intimate than if it was.
"Good girl."
Her fingers keep moving inside you as she places her thumb and starts drawing lazy circles over your clit.
Your hips jerk, your breath catching sharp in your throat. Without thinking, your hand shoots up, threading into her hair for something, anything , to hold on to.
But the second your fingers graze her hair, she stills.
“Nuh-uh,” she says, her tone low and warning, like she’s been expecting this. “No hair touching.”
You whimper, desperate, already squirming against her unmoving hand. “Wh– Please,” you gasp, your voice breaking.
“No,” she repeats. Steady. Merciless. And the refusal lands with a finality that makes your stomach twist.
God forbid her hair doesn’t sit perfect in a meeting.
You let out a broken sound, frustration and need tangling in your throat. The denial makes it worse, makes you only ache more.
But you nod in agreement, placing your fingers on the edge of the desk instead, your nails scraping at the wood to stop them from accidentally slipping back into her hair.
Agatha resumes her movement, moving her finger against that perfect spot deep inside you, while her thumb circles your clit with the cruelest precision.
Her eyes stay on yours, never breaking contact, never once looking away, like she knows exactly what your body needs before you do.
She watches you unravel like it’s sacred. Each movement is measured. She's not just fucking you, she's imprinting herself into every part of you.
And God, she is.
Finally, your whole body tightens, shoulders shaking, knees trembling, breath stuttering in your chest.
"Fuck– feels so good," you whisper. "Please, Agatha– I'm gonna– I need–"
Her face moves closer, and her voice comes soft but absolute, whispering against your lips.
"Let go for me, angel."
Your lips part, but nothing coherent makes it out. Just a shivery, broken sound as the tension inside you snaps.
You come hard, all at once. Your thighs quake, your hips jerking into her hand. You reach for her without thinking, digging your fingers into her wrist.
Agatha holds you through it, her fingers still moving inside you, working you through every violent pulse, not letting go, until the only sound in the office is your ragged breathing and the quiet, wet sound of her fingers inside you.
“There you go,” she murmurs, low and quiet. “That’s it. Just like that.”
She leans in, pressing her lips to your temple. A real kiss this time. Gentle. Grounding.
“Such a good girl.”
And it hits deeper than the orgasm. That voice. That warmth.
You melt into it.
You bury your face in her shoulder, still trembling, lungs scraping for air.
She doesn't rush you. She just stays there, holding you, letting you cling, one arm wrapped around your waist.
Time settles, quiet and light, before Agatha finally eases her fingers out, slowly taking them to her mouth to suck them clean. Her eyes flutter shut as she lets out a low, vibrating hum, deep in her throat, savoring the taste of you on her tongue like it's a rare and expensive wine.
The sound punches the air from your lungs. Your thighs twitch involuntarily, your hips making a soft, desperate jerk toward her without meaning to.
Her eyes open again, sharp and sure as they meet yours.
“God… I’m going to miss how sweet you taste,” she says, her voice low, indulgent.
Then she smoothes your panties back into place, refastening your jeans. Her thumb strokes lazy circles over your hip while the seconds stretch out.
The calm should be enough.
It isn’t.
Want rushes back in, hot and reckless, the very second you can breathe again. You lift your head, eyes hazy, need already licking at the edges of your voice.
“Please let me touch you,” you whisper, words ragged from crying out. “Please. It’s been too long already. How am I supposed to survive three more weeks?”
She exhales a soft, rueful sound. “I have a meeting.”
“Please, mommy,” you whine, shameless. “Let me make you feel good. Don’t you want my mouth on you one last time before I go?” You run a teasing hand down her waist.
A beat. You see the battle flash across her face, how she tenses under your touch.
“Such a tease. You really are that desperate, aren't you?” she murmurs. Then her features settle into something more cool and resolved. “Regardless, the answer is no. Not today.”
You sigh disappointed.
“But…” Agatha adds, trailing off.
Her fingers lace through yours and slowly draw your hand to her own body, directly to her chest.
The second she presses your palm over her breast, covered by a black sweater and bra, instinct kicks in. You give a gentle squeeze.
“Good girl,” Agatha mutters under her breath.
Then she guides you lower, down the soft fabric until you reach the hem, tucking your hand beneath it. Warm skin greets your fingertips, and a heartbeat later you’re sliding under the lace of her bra, cupping her bare breast fully.
The first brush of your thumb over her nipple shoots a sharp wave of heat through your blood.
You inhale sharply, and so does she. A flush climbs her throat. She releases your wrist, leaving you free.
“Please. Let me see them,” you whisper, aching to lift the sweater, look at her silk-soft skin and the perfect color of her nipples.
“No, pet,” she says, breath catching but resolve intact. “No time for that.”
So you make do with what you have.
Your thumb circles over her tip, and you feel it harden under your touch. You knead gently, learning the shape of her by feel alone while she stands there, jaw set, eyes dark, letting you have this one stolen minute. Then you roll her nipple between your fingers, and the soft gasp she gives you in return is devastating.
You’re not even the one being touched, but it doesn’t matter. You’re enjoying it as much as she is. The pleasure lives in your fingertips now, just from the way she feels, the way she reacts.
“One day I’ll let you play with my tits until I come just from that, sweetheart,” Agatha breathes. “But right now, I have a conference I’m already late for.”
And with that, her hand slides back under the sweater. She presses it over yours, squeezing one last time before she slowly pulls your hand away, closing the moment.
“Playtime’s over, darling,” she says softly. “Mama has a meeting to attend.”
Her fingers thread through yours as she brings your joined hands down between you. She looks at them for a second, yours in hers, and then up, her blue eyes locking onto yours with something heavier behind them.
And then she leans in.
One last time, her lips find yours.
The kiss is slow, but not careful. It’s intense, full of longing, full of desperation.
Her hands let go of yours to grip your hips, guiding you back against the edge of her desk, pressing into you as if she can keep you a little longer that way. Then one hand slips up, cradling your face, her thumb brushing your cheek like she’s memorizing the shape of you, like she isn’t quite ready to let you go.
Your hands cup her cheeks, holding her close as she devours you, claims you.
But beneath the heat, there’s something steadier. Her lips move against yours with purpose. To leave something behind. Something that will stay with you after you're gone. A last taste. A final claim. One that has to last, at least until the next time the door closes behind you.
It’s not just a kiss. It’s a pause between heartbeats. A trace burned into memory. The kind of goodbye that says everything without saying a thing.
This must be what it feels like to be shipped off to sea and having to leave your wife standing on the dock.
Except… you’re not boarding a ship. You’re just going home for Christmas.
And Agatha isn’t your wife. She's just the woman who ruins you every time she touches you.
And you're not gone for a year. It’s three weeks.
But god, it still feels like too long. Too far. Too unbearable.
On Saturday morning you've had a small breakfast, now getting ready to leave for Rhode Island.
You’re packing the last few things into your suitcase, brushing a folded sweater down flat with your palm, then heading to the bathroom to grab your toothbrush and whatever’s left of your skincare. Half in motion, your phone buzzes in your pocket.
You pull it out with a sigh, fully expecting another group chat notification or maybe something from your dad as you swipe across the screen.
But it’s not. It’s from Agatha.
A photo.
Your pulse jumps immediately. You pause, already breathless before you even open it. Because any time she sends you a photo, it’s never nothing.
You open it. And just like that, the air leaves your lungs.
It's her. Upper body bare.
She’s lying on those deep plum satin sheets again. The same ones she splayed you on just a week ago. Her skin catches the light like it was made for it, warm and golden, a contrast to the dark fabric. Her chest is fully exposed, her nipples hard, the soft curve of her breasts making your throat go dry.
Your gaze drags lower.
Her hand.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Her hand disappears under the waistband of her white pants. Just a suggestion as to where her fingers might be. Just enough to send your brain into a full tailspin.
And that smirk. That devastating smirk. One that says she knows exactly what this image is doing to you.
Like she can feel how wrecked you look standing here in your dorm, staring at your screen like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.
Because of course she knows. She always does.
And there’s a caption underneath.
One for the road.
Your breath catches again. A rush of heat blooms under your skin, quick and dizzying.
Your fingers move before you think.
Holy shit.
Is this your way of making up for not letting me see them yesterday?
It takes barely a minute for her reply to appear.
You were so eager to get a look, weren’t you?
Mommy couldn’t give you what you wanted yesterday, but she can give you something to tide you over. Consider it a little compensation.
You suck in a sharp breath. Your thighs press together on instinct.
Thank you, mommy.
You don’t send anything else. You just sit there for a beat, letting it wash over you.
The photo. The tone of her messages. The fact that she took this for you.
Your gaze drags back to the screen.
You just stare at the photo again. Let it settle into your bloodstream. Commit every inch of it to memory. Her skin, the slight arch of her body, the way the sheets dip around her, the hint of movement in her hand. You can almost taste her. Feel the shape of her on your tongue. And you swear your mouth waters.
You can't help it. Your palm slides down your body, almost of its own accord. The ache between your legs flares too violently. You almost slip your hand inside your pants until a sudden laughter reminds you that Alice is just across the room.
You jolt, blinking fast. Reality rushes back in.
Alice is still on the phone with her girlfriend, thankfully too distracted to notice the state you’re in.
You press your thighs tighter together, biting your lip hard. You're already in the process of plotting to quickly head to the bathroom before leaving and release the ache between your legs when your phone buzzes again.
Another text.
Drive safe, sweetheart.
And just like that, the heat in your chest shifts. It doesn’t vanish, it just folds in on itself. It deepens. Warms. Grows softer.
You trace your thumb over the screen, like you could somehow hold on to it. To her words, her care, the weight of that message.
You want to frame this. Not just the photo, but all the other things with it.
You slip your phone back into your pocket, heart thudding a little slower now, but no less full.
Alice finishes her call, and you say your goodbyes, exchanging quick hugs and promises to text. She doesn’t ask why your face is flushed or why your hands are trembling slightly. Thankfully.
You pack the last of your things into your suitcase and then stow it in the trunk.
And then you’re on the road, hands on the wheel, cool air hitting your cheeks through the cracked window.
But your mind isn’t on the traffic. Or the weather. Or even where you’re driving.
It’s on her.
On bare skin and satin sheets. That wicked smile.
On the picture burned into the inside of your eyelids and the warmth in your chest that no distance seems to reach.