My eyes squeeze shut, desperate to remember what it used to feel like before everything fell apart. I picture Jensen hovering over me, breath warm against my skin. His mouth on mine. His hands sliding down my body, touching me like I was the only thing that ever mattered.
My chest tightens and my pussy aches, a steady thrum building between my thighs.
I let my hand slip beneath the sheets, drifting down to my underwear. I slide my fingers inside and press them against my clit, moving in slow, deliberate circles.
I’m wet—soaked, really. Four months of celibacy will do that to a woman. With Jensen’s image burned into my mind, I sink deeper into the fantasy, working myself. My breathing grows heavier as I picture him sliding my underwear off, then unbuckling his belt. He undoes his pants, and I help pull them down. He’s hard—so fucking hard for me. That image alone is enough to make me moan.
He settles between my thighs, lowering his mouth to my stomach.
Butterflies parachute through me, and I swear to God, I can feel his breath on my skin as he trails lower. I picture it—his mouth on me, tongue flicking—and I rub myself faster.
It feels so damn good.
Then he looks up at me.
No.
Goddamit, no.
It’s not him. Not anymore.
The fantasy slips through my fingers like sand, and everything I’ve been trying to forget rushes back in. Jensen—high. The first night he took coke. The hollow look in his eyes. The dark circles. The lies.
“No,” I whimper, circling faster, harder, determined to come. I need this.
Jesus. You’re acting like I fucking hurt you.
No. Stop.
Come on. Talk to me, babe… What’d I do?
My hand stops, and I make a fist. Clenching my teeth, I squeeze my thighs together and groan.
Alley! Don’t you walk away when I’m talking to you!
The sobs come hard now. Like they always do.
Please don’t leave me with them.
More tears. More shaking. More sobbing.
Give me my fucking backpack!
Fuck you, Jensen!
That’s the one. The worst one.
The one I always end on.
The one that plays on repeat in my mind.
Give me my fucking backpack!
Fuck you, Jensen!
I give up on the orgasm and pull up the photo again. I stare at Jensen through blurry eyes—my face puffy, nose running, pillow soaked.
“You chose your backpack,” I whisper. “You chose your backpack over me.”
