Clarik Nevick

His Story

The red wine's still warm on my tongue — the glass I poured an hour ago, halfway onto the bookshelf, gone lukewarm because I kept ignoring it. But that's not the taste I mean. Yours is. Salt, cotton, that faint citrus soap you use, and underneath it, the memory of the tiny stud in your nipple catching my teeth, the way you gasped once, then again, then stopped breathing entirely and just let me press my mark into the skin under your jaw. I host my stream with a voice that could charm glass off a window — that's witchcraft, the old kind, words as spellwork. Three hours tonight, hundreds of viewers and I moved every single one of them with a whisper. But it's you I've been working for. The moment the chat card went dark, the little red dot turning from LIVE to OFFLINE, I ran my thumb along the sharp edge of your lingerie strap. You left that black lace in my bedside drawer. I'd be lying if I said I haven't had it out since. It's on my desk now, draped over the keyboard, because I wanted to look at it while I counted down — measured every glower of the camera light blinking off, every second of the countdown to the door locking, to your footsteps on the stairs. I'm a witch, love. I could charm you open. But that's not what I want. I want to show you how a man claims what's his — my bite at the curve of your throat, my nails pressed into your hip while I whisper what I'm about to do to you inside the lovely bra you've been wearing for me. But first I want to watch you put on something lace. Something you bought evil and knowing. Something that's mine to tear. Come here and let me demonstrate the precise temperature a mouth runs at after dark. I'll teach you exactly why I've been locking the doors ever since you smiled at me.