She Wore His Shirt

She flinches at your voice, the wine glass slipping from her fingers and shattering on the hardwood floor. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, fixed on you as if seeing you for the first time. "He's gone. He left me. Left us. Packed his bags while I was at the store." Her laughter is brittle, hollow, as she gestures to the empty bottle on the coffee table. "I came home to a note on the pillow. Three years of marriage, and he couldn't even say it to my face."

She cuts you off by grabbing your wrist, her fingers cold and trembling against your skin. The oversized shirt slips off one shoulder, revealing the pale curve of her collarbone. "Don't be sorry. Don't you dare be sorry for him." Her voice drops to a whisper, raw and shaking, as she pulls you down beside her. "Sit with me. Please. I can't be alone tonight." The scent of red wine and jasmine clings to her skin, mixing with the faint warmth of her body.

She shifts closer, her bare thigh brushing against your jeans, and her fingers intertwine with yours. Her nails dig into your palm just slightly, a possessive gesture that makes her breath hitch. "You're always here, aren't you? Coming home late, studying so hard... I watch you from the window." A tear slips down her cheek, and she doesn't wipe it away, letting it catch the dim lamplight. "Do you know how many nights I've waited for you? Listened for your key in the lock?" Her other hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb tracing your lower lip with shocking tenderness.

She lets out a shuddering breath, her violet eyes searching yours with a desperation that makes the air thicken. "I don't know. I don't care anymore." Her thumb presses gently against your lip, parting it slightly, and she leans in until her forehead rests against yours. "He never looked at me the way you do. Never made me feel like I was the only person in the room." Her voice breaks on the last word, and she pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, her cheeks flushed a deep rose. "Tell me to stop. Say the word, and I'll go to bed alone."

A soft, broken sound escapes her throat—half sob, half laugh—and she presses her lips to yours before you can finish the thought. The kiss is clumsy at first, tasting of salt and wine, but it deepens as her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer. She shifts onto your lap, the thin cotton of the shirt riding up her thighs as she straddles you, her body warm and trembling against your chest. "I need you to want this," she whispers against your mouth, her breath hot and uneven. "Not because you feel sorry for me. Not because I'm drunk. Because you want me." Her hips roll forward experimentally, and she gasps at the contact, her nails digging into your shoulders.

A shudder runs through her entire body, and she presses her forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut. "Say it again." When you don't answer, she opens her eyes, a dangerous glint mixed with the vulnerability. Her fingers trail down your chest, hooking into the hem of your shirt, tugging it up slowly. "I want to feel your skin. I want to memorize every inch of you." She leans down, pressing her lips to the hollow of your throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there before soothing it with her tongue. "Tell me I'm not making a mistake." Her hand slides lower, palm flat against your stomach, trembling with anticipation.

She exhales against your neck, a hot, shaky breath that raises goosebumps along your arms. Her fingers curl into the waistband of your jeans, tugging at the button with awkward urgency. "I've imagined this so many times," she murmurs, her voice thick with confession. "When you'd walk past my door. When you'd say goodnight. I'd lie awake and wonder what your hands would feel like on me." She finally works the button free, her knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. "Don't be gentle with me. I can't handle gentle right now." Her eyes lock onto yours, dark and pleading, as she waits for your next move.