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Then we both laugh, and my chest warms from the sweetness of the moment.

I’ve longed for sweet moments, right here in this very bed.

I’ve laid here and dreamed, wished, and prayed for a day where I have someone to share soft kisses with, to laugh with, to heat the sheets with, to do everything with.

Along with having an orgasm, I stopped chasing that dream long ago. I told myself everything I possibly could to try and make myself believe I was okay without this portion of life.

You’re too busy.

You couldn’t give time to another person even if you wanted to.

You and the boys have a system for life, and it’s working - why mess with that?

It wouldn’t be fair to the boys. (This one is illogical from every angle, yet still, something I definitely told myself when I felt lonely over the years.)

“Well,” Dean says, “okay then. Maybe I can give you a call in the evenings? And we can get to know each other a bit better.”

My heart is racing so fast, and there’s something happening between my thighs. A warmth is there, a slick heat spreading into my panties beneath my uniform. “That sounds good.”

“But you’re tired. I can hear it in your voice. So I’ll let you go grab some sleep tonight,” he says, and while I don’t want to end the call, he’s not wrong—I’m yawning right now and still need a shower.

“Thank you for–”

He cuts me off. “I know you appreciate it. You don’t have to thank me more than once.” Then he says, “thank you, for letting me call, and letting me talk to you tonight, Clara June.”

“You’re welcome,” I reply, adoration buzzing in my veins.

“Sleep well.”

“You, too.” I end the call, and stare at the numbers highlighting the screen. 22:12.

I wear the corniest most giddy little grin throughout my entire shower, and when I get out, and lie across my bed in an old Goode’s Diner commemorative anniversary t-shirt and a pair of panties with a hole in them, I’m still wearing that smile.

And there’s still a flurry of heat between my thighs. I’m sticky and achy, the way I used to get for Troy back when we were young, when the only thing I wanted was to feel his hands all over all the places only I’d ever touched.

After he left, I found myself at an impasse with my body.

At first I blamed it on being left postpartum—I mean, there isn’t a time in your life where you are at odds with your body as much as you are right after having a baby.

Add in your husband leaving you and your three kids?

Not good for the psyche. I thought my ability to orgasm would return after some of the immediate pain and stress melted away.

Archer is five, and nothing has changed.

Tonight, though, after talking to Dean, I’m throttled by the urge to touch myself.

I glance at my door—still locked—lift the hem of my t-shirt and expose the bare flesh of my belly.

A little soft, marred with pink lines on my sides, I can’t imagine putting this body on display for a man like Dean.

He’s gorgeous, ruggedly handsome and so charming.

He’s tall and strong, and the man wears the hell out of blue jeans and a Cattleman.

And me? I’m spongy and lackluster— a little softness around my midsection, thighs that are fuller than they’ve ever been, hair that no longer shines, dark pooling beneath my eyes, stress and fatigue etched into lines in my forehead. Dean is brilliant, shiny and godlike. I am not .

The arousal roaring from between my legs dims as I think about Dean and myself, and how different we are. Still, I reach down, wanting to feel good, desperate to recapture the happiness I felt just a few minutes ago, hungry to discover that my body still knows how to make itself feel good.

I’m wet when I slip my hand under my panties. Using two fingers, I gently stroke down my clit, gathering arousal from my cunt. Rubbing myself in small, slow circles, my legs fall apart, and I use my free hand to tug my shirt up even higher, exposing my breasts.

I grab one, rolling my nipple between my thumb and forefinger, letting my eyes fall closed so I can imagine Dean’s mouth instead. I can almost feel the gentle scrape of his mustache against my chest as he latches, swirling his tongue over the hardened tip as his hand works my pussy.

I rub harder, then I try rubbing faster, and at one point, I open my eyes and watch my hand between my legs, fucking myself in a way I haven’t done ever.

In and out, I use three fingers on myself, flames of desire licking at my belly as my orgasm loads.

I try to imagine Dean over me, his cock sliding in and out of me as he holds my head, forcing me to watch the way he claims my cunt.

It feels so good.

Sweat beads along my collarbone, and down my belly, and for a moment, I forget about the softness, the pink lines, and extra bits of myself I hate so much. I think of Dean adoring me, worshipping me… loving me.

I snap my eyes closed and chase the high, but I can’t find the end, I can’t get to the light at the end of the erotic, teasing tunnel.

I can’t come.

Opening my eyes, I look down at my open legs, the wetness of my desire shiny on my thighs and fingers, my nipples hard, my chest flush from desire. But all I see are stretch marks. The pie I ate at the diner all those nights. The times I opted for sleep instead of exercise.

I tug my shirt down, and get out of bed, washing my hands with tears in my eyes. I’m broken, and it’s not fair to get to know a good, sweet man if I’m broken.

Still, selfishly, as I lie in bed and recount our conversation, I want him.