BOOK FIVE: Pleasuring Myself (1)

~Lena’s POV~

“Listen,” Jasmine said, leaning forward on my couch with that wicked sparkle in her eyes, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass. “I’m telling you, there is nothing…absolutely nothing,like sliding two fingers over your clit after a long day and just letting go. Last weekend I had the apartment to myself and I swear I spent forty minutes edging and teasing my pussy until it was so swollen and wet I could hear every little stroke. When I finally rubbed hard and fast I came so hard my legs shook for ages. I still get wet thinking about it.”

Naomi laughed, stretching out in the armchair like a satisfied cat. “Please. I’ve been obsessed with my glass dildo lately. I get it ice-cold from the fridge, lie back, spread my legs wide and slide it in slow. The chill plus the pressure on my g-spot? Lethal. I don’t even touch my clit half the time and I still come screaming. Solo sex is elite. No awkward rhythm, no guessing games…just pure, selfish pleasure.”

They both turned to me, grinning expectantly. We were arranging stuff for me and Caleb's usual romantic night. He's finally home from his three day journey to his mom.

I felt heat rush to my cheeks, but I smiled anyway, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You two are ridiculous.”

“No dodging,” Jasmine sang. “Come on, Lena. When’s the last time you treated yourself? You can’t tell me Caleb is hitting every spot perfectly every single time.”

I took a slow sip of wine, buying time to think of a lie. The truth sat heavy on my tongue. Caleb was sweet and attentive. He always made sure to go down on me before we had sex, he always asked if I was close and he always tried so hard to make me feel good. But it never quite landed. His tongue was too soft or too fast, his fingers too careful or off rhythm. I would moan to encourage him, arch into his touch, but inside I felt the frustration building more than release. I had faked more orgasms in the last year than I cared to admit, just to spare his feelings.

“He’s good,” I said finally, voice light. “He takes his time. Makes sure I come first. I’m lucky.”

Naomi tilted her head, studying me. “That sounds like a press release, babe. We’re asking about you and your hand and that pretty pussy when no one’s watching.”

I laughed, but it came out thinner than I wanted. “I don’t really… do that.”

Jasmine’s brows shot up. “Ever?”

I shook my head. “Not really. I mean, maybe when I was younger, curious, but now? Caleb satisfies me. I don’t feel the need.”

It wasn’t a total lie. I didn’t feel the need to touch myself because the few times I had tried as an adult, guilt had crashed in immediately. Thoughts of Caleb, of whether I was somehow saying he wasn’t enough flooded my mind. So I stopped before I ever really started. It was easier to let him try, to guide his hand or mouth, to smile and tell him it felt amazing even when it didn’t.

Naomi reached over and patted my knee gently. “Okay babe. But if you ever feel like something’s missing, don’t be afraid to explore. Your body, your rules.”

Jasmine nodded. “Exactly. No shame in knowing what makes you tick.”

We let the topic drift after that. Then we talked about work complaints, the new drama series everyone was obsessed with, how romantic I should be Tonight, and plans for next weekend. They finished their wine, gathered their bags, and hugged me tight at the door.

“Good luck with your romantic dinner hon, don't blow it,” said Naomi. I smiled at her.

“Love you,” Jasmine whispered. “Think about what we said.”

Then they were gone, their heels clicked down the hallway and their laughter echoed until the elevator doors closed.

The apartment settled into silence. I stood in the living room for a moment, with my glass still in hand, feeling the quiet press in. The couch cushions still held the shape of their bodies. The faint scent of Jasmine’s perfume lingered.

I moved slowly, gathering empty glasses, wiping down the coffee table, anything to keep my hands busy. My mind wouldn’t settle. Their words kept circling.

 *No guessing games. Just you and your body.*

I had never let myself have that. Not fully. Not without guilt or interruption or the weight of someone else’s expectations.

I carried the glasses to the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher, turned off the lights one by one. 

I spent the entire afternoon turning the apartment into something out of a dream.

Soft fairy lights strung across the living room ceiling, casting a warm golden glow over everything. Candles flickered on the coffee table and along the windowsill sat vanilla and sandalwood, his favorites. I’d cooked his favorite meal: creamy garlic shrimp pasta, still simmering on the stove, the scent rich and buttery, filling every corner. A bottle of that red wine we discovered on our second date chilled in an ice bucket beside two glasses I’d polished until they sparkled. Fresh roses sat in a vase on the dining table, petals perfect and thorns carefully removed.

I’d even made dessert: dark chocolate mousse in delicate glass cups, topped with whipped cream and a single raspberry each. Everything was timed perfectly. He’d be home from his journey in an hour, and I wanted tonight to feel special. We hadn’t had a proper dinner together in months. Work, travel, and life are always getting in the way. So I’d taken the day off, deep-cleaned the apartment, shaved and moisturized every inch of skin, slipped into the black lace lingerie he loved under a simple silk dress that hugged my body just right.

I checked the clock again…6:42 p.m. Almost time.

I walked through the rooms one last time, adjusting a pillow on the couch, smoothing the soft throw blanket I’d laid out for later, when we’d curl up and talk or kiss or let things drift wherever they wanted. My heart felt light and fluttery. I imagined his face when he walked in—tired from travel, then surprised, then that slow, warm smile that always made my stomach flip.

I picked up my phone to check if he’d messaged about his flight landing. Nothing yet. That was fine. He was probably still in the cab.

I set the table one final time. I made sure that the plates aligned, forks and knives were perfectly placed and napkins were folded into neat triangles. The pasta was ready to be tossed with fresh parmesan. I turned the heat to low, just to keep it warm.

Then my phone buzzed on the counter.

I smiled, wiping my hands on the apron before untying it and tossing it aside. Finally.

I opened the message.

It was from Caleb.

*Lena, I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. We’re done.*

That was all.

No explanation. No I’ve been thinking, no It’s not you, it’s me. Just eight cold words, sitting there on the glowing screen.

I read it again, and again.

I looked around. I looked at the lights I’d spent an hour untangling, the food cooling in pots, the wine breathing in its bucket, the roses already beginning to wilt slightly in the warmth. Everything was prepared for a night that wasn’t going to happen.

My chest tightened, a slow, sick twist starting somewhere deep. I set the phone down carefully, like it might explode if I wasn’t gentle.

I stood there in my silk dress and lace underneath, barefoot on the kitchen floor, surrounded by candlelight and the smell of garlic and chocolate and hope that had just been crushed in a single text.

I didn’t move.

I just stared

at the screen as it dimmed, then went dark, reflecting my confused face back at me.