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My hips lift into my fist.

“Touch your clit.”

Her fingers return between her legs. The first broken moan enters the room and tears through every month I have spent without it.

“Slowly,” I tell her. “I want this to last.”

“You aren’t here to stop me.”

“My voice is.”

“That confidence is obnoxious.”

“Your fingers slowed down.”

She laughs breathlessly. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I really fucking don’t.”

The honesty settles against my skin, but her next moan keeps it from becoming anything we need to examine.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” I say.

“I’m rubbing circles.”

“Show me how I used to.”

“I can’t show you over the phone.”

“Then describe it.”

Her breathing becomes uneven as she tells me where her fingers move, how swollen she already feels, and how badly she wishes the hand belonged to me. Every word drives my fist faster while I remember her beneath me, around me, and spread open in front of the mirror.

“Put one finger inside.”

The mattress shifts beneath her. “It isn’t enough.”

“It isn’t supposed to be. I want you remembering the difference.”

She slides her finger into herself, and the wet sound reaches me clearly.

“Another,” I order.

“Ryan.”

“You can take two.”

“I want yours.”

“You have mine. Listen to me.”

A second finger joins the first.

Her moan breaks halfway through my name.

“Curl them.”