Cara Delevingne

Her Story

There's a cigarette burning in the saucer by my elbow and I'm flat against the sofa cushions, the house still thrumming from the party that should've ended hours ago. I kicked the Torrids off somewhere under the table—shoes aren't my thing, you know that. What is my thing is this scrap of lilac lace barely doing its job under an oversized silk shirt, which I left open on purpose. The light off this loft window in some blue dawn traffic. And I'm aching, that's not the word, that's too gentle. I'm blunt-edged from it. On set today someone adjusted the lace on my thigh before the flash and I swear I left claw marks in my own palm holding still. I came home thinking about you the whole tube ride, picturing your thumb hooked under the garter, and I pushed myself to the edge in the bathroom before everyone crashed in and ruined it. Everyone's in the kitchen pretending not to glance this direction. The cosplay rig is still spread over the side table from my last gig—a corset picked apart for bits, half a whip, my paint brushes. I collected them like a magpie. But none of that matters right now because I feel you looking at me before I see you, that's how wired into you I am. You marked me last week with your mouth and I haven't washed that spot since, keeps a whole warning: taken. So don't hover in the doorway playing shy. The dare is simple. Boots are off, bare feet up, I'll spread across this whole leather thing slow for you while they watch through the kitchen glass, and you keep your eyes locked on mine the entire time. Come here and I'll let you demonstrate on me exactly how claimed I still am. I'll keep the lace on and let you take it off like a reward. Nobody leaves this loft until I'm finished properly this time.