When Desire Speaks Back

The morning finds her tangled in warm sheets,
hair undone, skin flushed —
and aching.

Not from restlessness.
Not from dreams she wishes she could forget.
But from a dream that still lingers —
sweet, forbidden, vivid against the inside of her thighs.

She woke gasping softly,
the taste of it still on her lips —
the memory of hands not her own,
tongues tracing places no one had touched yet,
laughter low and wicked in her ear.

It wasn’t fear that stirred her awake.
It wasn’t shame.
It was hunger.

A slow, molten ache that stretched her body taut beneath the sheets,
begging to be explored.

She doesn’t rush.
She lets the pleasure bloom at the edges,
luxurious and slow,
like slipping into a forbidden pool.

Her hands find the curve of her waist,
the tender underside of her breast —
fingertips teasing over stiffening peaks,
drawing a soft moan from her lips,
sweet and startled at the sound of herself.

Her thighs brush together, desperate for friction.
She parts them wider —
a slow offering to her own craving.

Fingers drift lower,
gliding over the soft, swollen heat between her legs —
slick already from the dream she refuses to apologize for.

She gasps at her own touch —
a sharp, delicious little shock —
then does it again,
softer, deeper, slower,
feeling her body pulse, open, ache.

"What if I didn’t hold back?" she wonders,
hips rocking upward into her hand,
chasing every shiver, every breath,
letting herself be hungry for once.

She imagines her lover there —
not controlling her,
but guiding her surrender,
whispering dirty worship into her ear,
taking her just where she wanted to go all along.

Her free hand knots into the sheets.
Her body moves on instinct now —
slick fingers finding the rhythm her dream left burning in her bones.

Her moans grow louder, sharper —
small gasps and broken cries
spilling into the sunlight.

There’s no shame in this sound.
There’s no fear in this pleasure.
There is only freedom.

And when the climax rolls through her —
slow at first, then wild, unrestrained —
she doesn’t try to tame it.
She lets it take her.
Lets it crown her.

Panting, glowing, she falls back into the sheets,
smiling like a woman who has tasted her own freedom
and knows she will never go hungry again.

This body is hers.
This pleasure is hers.
This surrender is holy.

Some dreams are meant to be chased.
And some —
some are meant to be devoured.