I didn’t leave.
He didn’t either.
The air inside the confessional had shifted. It was denser now. A hot, trembling kind of silence that made my skin tighten. I sat there with two wet fingers resting on my knee, my legs parted and aching, and I could hear him breathing. Slow. Controlled. Too controlled.
He was trying to ignore me.
So I started again.
I let my hand slide lower, slipping between my thighs until my fingers found my c**t, swollen and greedy. I circled once. Twice. Gasped into my palm.
Still, he said nothing.
I didn’t need him to.
“Do you know how long it’s been since someone made me feel this way?” I asked softly, half-lidded, lost in the pulse between my legs. “Not like a girl. Not like a body. But like something unholy. Touched by heat instead of hands.”
No answer.
