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Used to her night owl hours, I don’t think twice when I slip my earbuds in and eventually make the call.

“Hello,” she answers after the second ring, her voice giving me instant relief.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.

A soft chuckle reaches my ear. “There’s nothing to apologize for. I think maybe I came on too strong, so if anything?—”

“No,” I interrupt. “You didn’t come on too strong. You were honest, and I appreciate that.”

“Not too honest?” she questions.

Even though she can’t see me, I shake my head. “You just said what I was thinking.”

Closing my eyes, I put my cell down on my nightstand and swallow past the irrational fear of rejection, knowing she wants me just as much as I want her.

“The ball’s in your court, sweetheart. You tell me what’s next and I’ll do it.”

I love it when she calls me sweetheart. Endearments are my kryptonite, probably because for twenty-four years nobody had ever called me anything else but Clem.

“I’ll go on a date with you,” I say, answering her invitation, fearing it’s five days too late. “I don’t really know the logistics of it all, but I want to give us a chance to at least work it out.”

“God,” she sighs. “I am so relieved to hear you say that, because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Besides the day in the car, it’s the first time she’s made it explicitly clear that this is where we’re heading. In text messages we’re always teetering on the edge, depending on only banter and light flirting, the decision to hold back an unspoken one.

But all bets seem to be off now. And after admitting we’re both very much on the same page––just like our first night––I’m hanging on by a single fucking thread.

“I can’t stop thinking about you either,” I admit. “I haven’t stopped, even before I knew who you were.”

“Tell me,” she says. “What is it about me you thought about the most?”

I can’t answer her question any more than I could pick my favorite food or favorite color. I think about her always, the way she makes me feel, the complete disbelief that someone else has the power to make me feel so good.

It’s like opening the door to a brand new world, and never wanting to leave.

“Your hands,” I breathe out, knowing it’s what I reminisce on the most. “All over me. It’s like you seared your touch into my skin.”

“Can you imagine my hands on you now?” Her voice is like a surround sound in my ears. “Which part of you would I be touching first?”

When there’s nothing but the sound of us breathing, she orders, “Touch yourself, Clementine.”

Her use of my full name gives me the courage and confidence to step into the shoes of the woman I was that night. To own my sexuality. To chase my pleasure.

“Slide your hands underneath your shirt,” she instructs, and my fingers brush against the necklace that rests between my tits. “I want you to caress those perfect breasts of yours, play with your nipples.”

I pluck and pull and roll them between my fingertips. I’m her puppet, and her voice moves my strings.

“How’s that belly button piercing?” she muses. “I want you to play with it, tease yourself before I tell you to shove your underwear down your legs and fuck your fingers.”

Clenching my thighs together, I bite on my bottom lip to stop the whimper that threatens to come out as I fiddle with the metal barbell, anticipating her next order.

“Do you want to touch yourself?” she asks, and my clit throbs at her question.

“Please,” I breathe out.

“Do it,” she coaxes. “Slide those delicate fingers between your legs.”

My hands eagerly obey, traveling down my stomach, fingers dipping beneath my damp underwear before gliding up and down my slick center.