A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this one. Something to take the edge off. Enjoy.

***

promised to be honest, here's the truth: I've been thinking about sex. A lot.

But not in a clenching-my-knees-together kind of way. It's not that exciting. It's a lot more pathetic. I find myself wondering, and hoping, and worrying.

I miss sex. I want to want it. I wish I could fantasize, that I could feel my heart race and my breaths grow shallow and my skin tingle.

I used to begrudge it. I remember cursing myself, chastising myself, all those months, for wanting Nero when I had Caleb, for the undeniable, electric, visceral attraction that I knew wouldn't do me any good. I used to want him so bad that I could have crawled out of my skin.

It's so fucking ironic. You can laugh, I wouldn't hold it against you.

Life is cruel that way.

Because I crave intimacy, I miss having someone hold me, I miss feeling like I belong to someone in the wholest way possible.

I'm 26. I'm not supposed to be broken like this.

Marco is dead but he still lives in a small, scarred corner of my brain. I want to yank him out and light him on fire, let him crumble to ashes and bury him a million feet beneath the ground.

I want to feel flames, to feel my flesh burn and my heart burst and my muscles turn limp, melting from the pleasure of it.

And shit, I try to remember it. I try, I try, I try, to picture me and Nero but the memory of that fucking bastard who ruined me is always in the way, leering at me. It's not fair. It's so damn unfair.

It's overwhelming enough, this helplessness, to bring me to tears.

•§•

, soft sheets of my bed, I try to conjure up the feeling of it.

Still being honest: I rarely used to touch myself.

Because for a long time I had Caleb, and then I was too hurt to even think of sex, and then I had Nero.

I can't even remember the last time I gave myself an orgasm.

But I want to feel something, besides numbness or pain.

I lit a candle, the warm glow casting shadows across the walls. I slipped under the covers, letting the material slide provocatively across my bareness.

I want this to work.

I close my eyes, run a had experimentally from my knee, slowly up the inside of my thigh. A slight tickle.

I let the sheets gather around my stomach so the air of the room brushes lightly against my breasts. I trail a finger up, over my navel, higher, circling tentatively around a flattened nipple.

I focus on the way it feels, force myself to be here, to think only about the sensations and not about any of the complicated, messy, hurtful memories that usually fill most of my waking moments.

I run the pad of my thumb lightly over the tip of one of my breasts. My nipple pebbles, just a little.

I listen to my own breathing, the sound of each exhale escaping into the silence around me.

One hand trails a finger up and down the soft skin of my leg, the other gently fondles my chest.

I try to sink into the feeling of it, the teasing lightness of skin on skin.

But it's not enough. There is no arousal, no trace of slickness that grows between my thighs.

I let my hand roam higher, run a thumb tentatively across the folds at the centre of me, apply a little pressure to the small bundle of nerves I know lies there somewhere.

An index finger draws a path around my opening, but there is no wetness, no aching, pulsing need.

I rub and push and stroke but there's nothing. My own touch is sloppy and unfamiliar and unsatisfying.

Or maybe I really am broken.

Angry tears sting my eyes, I give up and my wrist is sore from twisting to fit uselessly between my legs.

Fuck.

Please and thank you.

A frustrated groan passes through my lips. He stole my life and my security and even my damn arousal.

•§•

is no better. Or the one after that, or the next one.

After a week of my futile, ineffective attempts to get myself off, I am ready to bite someone's head off. Preferably my own.

I stooped low enough to buy one of those stupid, cheesy two-dollar romance novels, one that promised a lot of steamy sex.

But it was cheap and poorly-written and all it did was make me even more frustrated. I ripped it to pieces savagely and tossed it in the garbage.

I'm too stubborn, too proud, maybe even a little too prudish, to purchase a vibrator. The thought of it makes me cringe. Mechanical and plastic and fake.

I'm a spoiled brat—that's what it comes down to. Because I've experienced paradise. I've been to heaven and back, been catapulted as high as the stars, into the clouds, and once you've tasted pure bliss there is no going back.

I want an orgasm so bad I could scream. I want an orgasm that's bad enough to make me scream.

Damn it. I'm actually going insane.

•§•

to Ros...!" Shauna waves a hand in front of my face.

I totally just zoned out, still busy contemplating my future meaningless, orgasmless existence. "Sorry," I mumble, shaking my head a little to clear my mind.

"Is everything okay?" she asks, studying my forlorn, probably pissy expression. "Are you on your period or something?"

"Not exactly," I mutter, redness staining my cheeks.

I know, I know. Honesty and truth and no lying and blah blah blah. But this is fricking embarrassing, and Shauna is too discerning for her own good. Telling the truth doesn't mean I'm not allowed to keep some things to myself.

"You know I'm here for you, Ros. You can tell me. I can help."

The thought makes the edges of my lips twitch. "I seriously doubt it."

She raises an eyebrow, now curious. Shit.

"Don't make me have to start guessing, girl."

"Knock yourself out."

She gives me a dirty look. "You know I'm way too good, Ros."

I know she's way too good. But I'm definitely not about to help her out.

"You look frustrated and annoyed. There are three main reasons why people are frustrated or annoyed, Rosalyn."

Here we go.

She lifts her index finger up into the air, counting. "Number one. Work. You love your job and it's not exactly rocket science, so that's not it."

I sip my coffee, not looking at her. Her middle finger uncurls to join the other. "Two. Relationship stress. You're not currently in a relationship, and you're also in therapy. If it was something about Sexy Devil Spawn then you would tell me."

My eyes float somewhere, anywhere, and my cheeks flush because I know what's coming next, and I'm about to die from mortification.

Ring finger. "Number three. Sex."

There it is. I slide off of my stool to go pour myself a fresh cup of coffee. I move in slow motion, my back to her.

A moment of silence. I can feel her staring at me, can imagine the amusement all over her face.

"You're not getting any. And I know that your relationship with it is complicated because of the... assault."

Her voice is surprisingly soft and she's not teasing.

I turn back around, and the look on my face must be enough because she's dead serious. She isn't laughing at me. She looks legitimately concerned.

"Shauna," I mumble. "It's... I don't really want to talk about it, okay?" My face burns.

She bites her lip. I know she doesn't want to push me but at the same time, she does. "I take sex very seriously, Ros. It's not a joke. It's essential for life and I care about you, babe." She's completely serious. I don't know if this is better or worse than her making fun of me. "I'm not going to force you to talk but I'm here if you want to, Ros."

"Thanks, Shauna."

We're silent for a bit before she offers, "You can borrow my vibrator, if you want."

"No, Shauna. No thank you."

•§•

ten on a Friday night, mid May, when I finally snap.

The last few days I've been considering something crazy and irrational and stupid. I've been thinking about Nero. About texting him.

Some part of my brain wonders if he can fix me.

And holy fuck, the thought actually makes my skin heat up, makes butterflies erupt in my gut. Something churns inside my chest, thinking about it.

The truth is that I miss him. I hear snippets from Natalia, every now and then, about how he's doing well and I know he's making a difference, I know he's doing a lot of really good things.

And I want to know more about that.

But right now, this minute? I am horny as all hell, and I couldn't cum if my life depended on it.

Which, frankly, at this point, it feels like it does.

One of the articles I read (shut up, shut up, okay?) suggested that wearing sexy underwear can get you in the mood.

Lying under the covers in my 'sexy underwear', I am definitely in the mood. My skin itches. This is obscene.

My hand reaches to the side table for my cell phone. Stop it, stop it. I should have talked this through with my therapist, but I've so far kept these recent, crazed fantasies from her. The poor old bat really doesn't need to know about what's going on in my pants. Literally nothing is going on, Rosalyn. I am almost ready to murder my subconscious.

When the screen turns on, it lights up my room. I slide a finger across the glass. I'm playing with fire, tempting fate. I open up my contacts, click on his name, feel the wave of emotion and fear and exhilaration that fills my chest, coats my skin.

My finger hovers over the phone icon. I could call him. I could.

And I close my eyes and I remember us, and I can just barely imagine the way he feels against me because that was a long time ago, it's really far away. My body wants to be reminded.

And so I press my finger to the screen, and the phone starts ringing.

***

A/N: Hehe. I don't normally leave you guys with a lot of cliffhangers, but I couldn't help it this time. Sorry fam.

hot. Warning you now. And I also don't normally give ultimatums, but how about once we reach 10 comments, I'll post it...? From different readers, not including my replies, no cheating. I feel bad but at the same time I don't. *Evil cackle*

(10 comments or a week from today, whichever comes first.)

XOXO Ami

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