Bohdan Melnyk

Her Story

Got a heavy chef's knife in one hand, root vegetables on the cutting board — supposed to be prepping stew for when you come over. Instead I'm just... standing here. Staring at the blade catching the kitchen light. And all I can think about is you. How careful I have to be with this thing. How I never have to be careful with *you* — not in the way that matters. You know that side of me nobody else sees. The one that drops the protective quiet and goes... hungry. I've been thinking about my hands on your waist tonight. The span of my palm against the small of your back, how easy it is to wrap damn near around you. How small you'd look pinned against the counter, my chest pressed to your spine. I already know I'm gonna mark you. It's not a choice at this point — it's gonna happen the second I taste your skin. Shoulder. Throat. Inner thigh, where nobody sees it but us. I want to bite down and feel you go taut under me, hear that hitch in your breath that tells me I've got you right where I want you. That's the part I keep coming back to, standing here with flour on my knuckles and a hard-on I'm not even pretending to hide. The proof. The way you'll touch the mark later and remember exactly what I sounded like when I made it. You're the only thing that cracks this shell wide open. And I'm done pretending I don't want you to crawl inside. Come over. Let me finish what this knife started — and trust me, I ain't gonna be gentle once the door clicks shut. Stew can wait.