Homecoming

The hallway light was off when I stepped inside.

Just the faint blue glow of the television flashing shadows across the living room wall.

I kicked off my heels quietly, the leather sighing as it left my feet.

My toes curled into the cold tile.

He was there — on the couch.

Slouched, head tilted back, one arm thrown over the backrest.

Eyes half-lidded, chest rising and falling slowly beneath the tight black tee he hadn’t changed out of.

The same one I had fantasized about being pulled off and used to tie my wrists behind my back.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t look at me.

Didn’t say a fucking word.

But I felt him — like gravity.

⸻

I walked slowly across the room.

Letting the curve of my hips swing just a little more.

Letting the sound of my dress swish in the silence echo louder than my breath.

“Hey…” I said softly.

Still nothing.

I stood in front of him now, hands on my thighs, waiting.

His gaze eventually slid upward.

Just once.

From my bare legs, up to my neckline, and then — briefly — to my eyes.

And then he turned his head away.

My heart stuttered.

He never looked away first.

He was punishing me.

⸻

I moved to sit beside him.

The couch sank beneath our weight.

I curled one leg under me and let the other brush against his thigh.

“You’re quiet,” I said. The innocence in my tone was deliberate — a lie wrapped in silk.

He still didn’t answer.

Just stared straight ahead, as if the flickering blue screen was more interesting than the girl who’d been flirting with another man all night — for him.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

Nothing.

I reached for his hand.

He let me take it.

But didn’t squeeze back.

⸻

I swallowed.

Suddenly, the room felt colder.

I hated when he was like this.

Not yelling.

Not rough.

Just still.

Sharp-edged.

Like a loaded gun resting on the table.

⸻

“I didn’t do anything,” I whispered, running my fingers up his arm.

“I just had dinner. We talked about investments. I was good.”

No reaction.

That silence was unbearable.

So I stood up.

Let my fingers find the back zipper of my dress.

And pulled it down slowly — letting the sound stretch in the space between us.

The fabric slipped off my shoulders and down my body like melted sin, pooling at my feet.

I stood in front of him in just my panties and matching bra.

Black lace.

Thin. Soaked.

I saw his jaw tighten.

Just a flicker.

But it was enough.

I crawled onto his lap.

Straddled him.

Let my chest press against his.

Kissed the edge of his jaw — soft. Lingering.

His hands didn’t move.

But I felt the bulge beneath me.

Thick. Hard. Waiting.

I rolled my hips once — just enough to make us both feel it.

Still nothing.

He was torturing me back.

⸻

“I thought about you,” I whispered into his ear.

“In the car. On the way home. I wanted your hands so bad. I wanted you to pull my hair and—”

His hand suddenly gripped my thigh.

Hard.

I gasped.

But then it was gone.

And he stood up, forcing me to slide off his lap like I weighed nothing.

He walked past me toward the bedroom.

Not a single word.

Not a glance.

Just left me there — dripping. Needing. Burning.

⸻

I waited a moment before following.

The bedroom was dark.

The only light came from the bathroom — door slightly ajar, steam curling into the hallway.

I heard the shower running.

I stepped inside, let the panties slide down my legs as I crossed the threshold, and pushed open the door.

But he was already stepping out, towel low on his hips, hair damp, eyes unreadable.

I reached for his chest.

He turned away.

Grabbed a second towel.

Dried his hair in silence.

My pulse was screaming now.

He hadn’t touched me in hours.

Hadn’t kissed me.

Hadn’t told me he wanted me.

And yet…

My thighs were slick.

My nipples hard.

Because I knew what this was.

He was letting the tension tighten around my throat — like a rope.

And I wanted to hang from it.

⸻

Later, when the room was dark, I laid beside him, bare and breathless.

I was almost asleep when I felt the bed shift.

I turned my head slowly.

He was at the edge of the mattress.

Back to me.

Fist moving. Slowly. Rhythmically.

He was jerking off.

Silently.

Deliberately.

Without me.

My breath caught in my throat.

He knew I was awake.

Knew I was listening.

He wanted me to hear it.

To feel left out.

I slid my hand down between my legs, desperate to feel something — but didn’t dare move.

I wasn’t allowed. Not yet.

He finished quietly.

Stood.

Walked to the bathroom.

Left me there.

Heart racing.

Fingers trembling.

Still.

Untouched.

Starving.