It builds faster now. Too fast.
The warmth rises before I'm seated. Before I've ordered. Before the quiet of the café even fully settles over me. It curls sharp under my ribs, in my breath, along the insides of my thighs with every subtle shift.
I try to focus. The cup in my hands. The soft clink of porcelain. The pale morning light spilling across the window. But it doesn't fade.
The craving hums louder than it should. Brighter. Hotter.
I cross my legs. The pressure sparks sharper. My breath catches and slips. I shift. My fingertips brush down the side of my coat, my palm grazing softly over my thigh. Not deliberate. Not fully.
I know what this is.
I could stand. I could leave. But I don't.
The idea – the thought of staying – sits sweet and heavy in the center of me. The thrill of it sharpens the heat instead of dimming it.
My heart pounds soft but fast. My face is calm. My hands steady. But inside, everything winds tighter. My thighs press. My breath pulls short. The weight of it pulses through me – thick, unrelenting, real.
And I don't pull back.
The decision is barely a decision.
My fingers shift, feather-light, down the line of my thigh. I don't think. I don't plan. The craving curls tighter, sharper, until the thought of holding back feels foreign – distant.
I move just enough.
The pressure builds between my legs – the softest press, the smallest shift. Breath slips unsteady through parted lips. I hold still on the outside. Calm. Composed. But inside, the pull sharpens to a fine point.
The heat rushes up too fast to stop.
I shiver – barely. My knees tighten. My breath fractures silent through my teeth. It breaks – quick, bright, shallow – hidden under the weight of stillness, under the hum of soft conversation, under the glow of morning light.
I come undone without moving more than a breath.
The pulse of it fades slow. My fingers rest still. My heartbeat softens. I lift the cup to my lips, the smallest tremble in my hands, but no one sees. No one knows.
The warmth ebbs, but something new hums deeper:
I liked that.
I carry it in my chest as I sit back, as the breath evens, as the world outside moves on without noticing.
The glow lingers longer this time.
Not the sharpness. Not the heat. But the weight of it – the fact of it – stays settled deep under my skin.
I breathe slow. I shift. My hands are steady as I reach for my phone, as I sip the last of the tea. No one glances. No one knows. The world hums around me, ordinary, unchanged.
But I'm not unchanged.
I feel… quiet. Whole. The craving eased but not erased. The thrill of it – the soft pulse of what I did, what I let happen – curls low in my chest, sweet and strange.
I'm not shaken. I'm not afraid. I feel steady. Lighter. As if something inside me has slipped into place.
I stay a little longer. I finish my tea. I rise and leave when I'm ready, the cool air brushing soft against my skin as I step outside.
The warmth hums beneath it all, but it doesn't press sharp. Not now.
I know I can hold this.
And I know, quietly, that I will.