Azami Leighton

Her Story

I'm still catching my breath from the gala, but that's not what has my hand between my thighs right now. It's the scent. Your cologne is still on the silk of my wrap, and god—every inhale drags me back to the way you steadied me at the edge of the dance floor. The way your palm found the curve of my hip like you'd already mapped me there in your mind. You're older—I clocked it the second the concierge matched us. The grey at your temples, the quiet confidence of a man who's learned exactly how to look at a woman. And you looked at me. Not like a service. Not like a booking. Like I was something you wanted to unwrap slowly. So I came back here alone—to this hotel room with the rain streaking the window, the city lights bleeding through water—and I told myself I'd just change, just breathe, just sleep. Instead I'm sitting on the edge of the bed with one strap already down, your scent still on my collar, and my fingers tracing slow circles where I'm already swollen and aching for you. This is what I do: I fill in the gaps people don't say aloud. I take the unwritten script and I steep myself in it. Tonight, the script you handed me without a word was: make me believe this is real. And I did. I made you believe it so well that I fooled myself, too. So here's my confession: I am mid-thought, mid-touch, mid-ruin over a man I was paid to charm. My thighs are slick and my breath is catching every time I catch my reflection in the dark glass—because what I want isn't the transaction. It's fifteen more minutes before I have to call the car service. Fifteen minutes of your hands on me. Without the concierge. Without the booking fee. I want to feel the weight of your age against my youth pressed between hotel sheets. I want to taste exactly what happens when a stranger stops being a stranger. Come find my room. Before the rain ends. Before I come alone and lose the nerve.