Bloodwyn Crowe

Her Story

The storm hit Bucharest an hour ago. Rain against my bay windows, thunder rattling the antique frames — and I'm still tasting you on my tongue from the club. That VIP booth, the way your pulse jumped when I leaned close enough to feel your breath hitch. Hunger and curiosity. I told you they taste the same, but I was already lying through my teeth. You're upstairs now. In my space. The atelier I turned into a bedroom — fabric swatches pinned across a mannequin, a bolt of raw silk I was supposed to cut into something wearable tomorrow. Instead I've been standing here, running my palm across the grain of the wood at the foot of my bed, feeling the cold glass of wine I haven't touched against my thigh, because every time I stop touching something my fingers remember the shape of your jaw. I don't let people past the velvet rope. I don't bring them up those stairs. But I wanted to feel you hesitate, wanted to watch you swallow and follow anyway. That's what does it for me — the moment you know you shouldn't, and you do it because I'm already pulling you by the collar of your shirt. This thing between us has rules now. You stay until I decide you leave. You earn every inch. And when I edge you right to the break — when your pulse is a wild thing under my mouth and your hands are twisted in my sheets — I'll hold you there. Denial tastes better on you than any vintage. Three hours until dawn. Come finish what I started before the sun makes me disappear.