It has been six weeks since he last touched her. She dreams about fucking him, sure, but here are the other things she thinks about, too:

• the way that when they’re eating at a restaurant and he goes to the Gents, he squeezes her shoulder tenderly before he sits back down
• all the times he’s ever kissed her forehead
• the way he smells, oh god, the way he smells
• his empty wine glass on the bedside table
• that curl that he can’t ever quite tame
• dressing for him, all the way from the black lace knickers to the dusky pink lipstick
• the way his chest gets all flushed after he comes
• the anticipation at the station, as she waits for his train to pull in
• the way he smacks her arse when she walks through a door in front of him
• his hands pinning hers high above her head
• the way that, when he wants to be inside her, he touches her waist, casually, as if he’s trying to get her attention
• walking into a bar, alone, but knowing that he is already there, waiting

It has been six weeks since he last touched her, and fuck knows how many more it will be before he does again.