Wren lit one candle and locked the door. She lived alone, but she locked it anyway.
She had waited all week for this. The green velvet lay across the pillow, right where she had left it.
She stood in the amber light in her thin black slip. The cool air kissed the tops of her thighs. She slid between the sheets and drew the velvet across her palm. She went slowly, the way you stroke a cat you adore.
Her breath dropped without her asking. In for four, out for six. By the fourth round her belly had gone soft and heavy and warm.
She drew the velvet up her arm, over her shoulder, and along her throat. A shiver ran all the way down her spine and pooled between her legs. Her kitty woke up like a held breath, slick and swollen.
She smiled at the ceiling. There you are.
She was in no hurry. She slid the velvet down over her belly and let it rest across the top of her thighs. Then she pressed, just a little, with the flat of her hand.
Pressure, warmth, and the slow pulse of her own heartbeat answering from below. Her hips tipped up to meet her hand, all on their own. Her button throbbed like a second heart.
She rocked, slow as the tide. Hand and velvet and hips moved as one long sentence. Her lips parted. The sound that left her was low and rough and entirely hers.
The wave came up from the soles of her feet, climbing, climbing. She held the edge of it, trembling, for one long delicious moment. Then she let go. It broke over her in great, rolling pulses, again and again, until she was laughing and gasping into the pillow.
She lay there, wrecked and glowing, with the velvet tangled around her wrist.
Then she blew out the candle and said to nobody, “Well, hello, Thursday.”