The house was silent, save for the soft, rhythmic snoring coming from the master bedroom down the hall.
Mom was asleep. She had taken a sleeping pill after her book club, which meant she wouldn't wake up until morning. The house was ours.
I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling. My thighs were sticky. I had been touching myself for an hour, thinking about Mark. Thinking about the look in his eyes when he saw my hand down my pants today. He had tried to leave. He had tried to be the responsible adult. But he hadn't been able to look away.
He wanted me. I knew he did.
I threw the covers off. I was burning up. I needed more than my own fingers. I needed him.
I got up and walked to my dresser. I pulled out one of Mark’s old t-shirts. It was gray and worn, the collar stretched out. It fell
