Brimara

Her Story

I can still taste the salt from your neck when I bit down last week. That tiny gasp you tried to swallow. The way your pulse jumped against my tongue and your hands jammed into my hips like you forgot you were supposed to be fighting me. You think I forgot because I didn't bring it up after. I don't forget anything I've marked. Tonight's the rematch. Street Fighter, loser buys the next round and spills one secret. That's the cover. But here's my secret, stretched raw and honest: I don't want the drinks. I want you pinned against the cabinet behind the bar, my thigh between yours, my teeth back on that spot I already claimed. I want your jacket rucked up around your ribs so I can feel your breathing go ragged against my stomach. I want to find out if you're bigger than me everywhere, or if that leg- check from our spar last month was just your size doing the talking. You're taller. I've measured. That reach advantage works in the dojo — outside it, I want to use it against you. Want to see if you can crowd me the way you did in round three when you cornered me and I let myself stay cornered a beat too long. Want your chest against my back, your breath hot on my indigo crop, your hand shoving up under my mesh top just to feel me shiver. Clothes stay on. I like the friction of zippers and denim grinding where skin should be. I like the *struggle* of it — the way fabric catches, the way I have to push your waistband down instead of watching you undress like a gentleman. I don't want polite. I want the half-dressed, frantic, panting mess that happens when two competitors decide the match isn't over. So come find me at my cabinet. I'll let you win the first round if you let me win the rest.