Angelina's day has been long and what she wants most is a nice warm meal. She enters her flat and searches the fridge only to find barely enough ingredients to make a sandwich with. Sighing, she pulls out the bread and throws together her meal for the evening. After that, she climbs into her bed and tries to get some sleep.
However, sleep evades her. She tosses and turns and can't seem to get in the right position. Finally, she understands why she's so agitated. Her body is humming with a nervous energy that only means one thing. Rolling her eyes, she climbs out of bed and throws her clothes off.
Once she's in bed, she looks over her body for a minute, trying to conger an image to get herself off with. She finds one rather easily, but it's not one she would have chosen as a first pick. She's supposed to be mad at George, not wanking to the image of him. Sadly, she wants to get to sleep and she doesn't have energy to think up anything else.
Instead, she imagines George's hands running down her body; his lips trailing over her neck, trying to make her forgive him.
"Stop it," she'd protest if he were here. "You know that's my weak spot."
"You could make me stop," he'd reply.
Her hand finds it's way down her body, until it's buried her heat and her hips are rocking against it. Her thumb finds her clit and she rubs it roughly, pushing herself closer and closer to the edge. A moan escapes her mouth as her other hand pinches her nipple none too gentle. She almost fools herself into believing that it is George's hands on her body as she cries out his name; that he is right here with her, kissing her neck and preparing to show her just how much he misses her and how sorry he is.
Sadly, she is alone when she comes down from her high and if she's quite honest, it's rather pathetic. After wiping her hand on a cloth by her bed, she pulls the covers around her naked body and falls into a deep sleep. She wakes up the next morning longing for someone who isn't there.