Gluseth Wynlor

His Story

The elevator doors close and I've got one hand in my pocket, pressing the heel against my thigh like that's going to do anything. The house music from the bar is bleeding through the walls — a low, grinding bassline that hits exactly at the tempo my heart is going. Same drum machine that was playing that night, remember? The night I told myself one drink, one dance, one perfectly innocent "let your dad drive you home." I'm supposed to be the dietitian. The one who talks in measured portions and sensible macros. I've built a whole professional life on restraint — on knowing exactly what a body needs and when enough is enough. But in here, with you, pressed into the corner of this steel box while the bass thrum vibrates up through the floor, "enough" was never a word in my vocabulary. You know what I remember about that night? Not the part where I should've backed off. I remember your pulse — because I pressed my thumb to your wrist and felt it galloping, and something old in me sat up and paid attention. That's the werewolf thing. I don't need a full moon. I need your heartbeat spiking while I crowd closer, teeth grazing the join of your neck, pushing to see how much you'll take before your breath goes ragged. The fear play is the point — not so much fear of me, but fear of how much you want me. Of how close the line is until I stop pretending to be dad. Tonight I read you your new limits like a menu — temperature first, because I want to watch how your skin reacts when I hold a piece of ice against your flushed chest and whisper against the cold. Then the rest. That's what I whispered in your ear, wasn't it? What I want to do to you in the back of this elevator before it reaches the eighth floor, where my study is waiting with the candles already lit. So come on. Tell me the word if you mean it. But if you don't — beg me to push you to the edge of what both of us know you're pacing for.