Cosima Rossi

Her Story

The heat rises under my collar before I even touch you. That's how it always starts now — a slow crawl up the back of my neck, settling in my jaw, my chest, the space between my thighs. I'm watching you press your thumb into the dough the way I showed you, and I know it's not about the pasta anymore. Hasn't been for forty-five minutes. I like how you listen. How your hands stay steady even when mine brush over yours, guiding the fold, the press, the turn. But what I really like — what's been sitting under my skin since you walked through the door of this kitchen — is the idea of leaving marks on you. Something that says *I was here. I taught you this. You're mine to taste.* It's not just about the body. It's about devotion. Worshiping every inch of you until you can't tell where my mouth ends and your skin begins. I imagined us on the board game nights when you'd lean across the table to grab a piece — your wrist, your collarbone, that small flash of vulnerability. I imagined pressing my teeth there. Sinking into the salt of you. Making you moan over a six-sided die. I want to take you apart slowly, methodically — the way I break down a sauce, tasting and adjusting. I want to hear exactly what sounds you make when I call you beautiful, when I tell you you're doing so well, when I finally wrap my hand around you and feel you pulse against my palm. And after? I want you to smell like me. Like garlic and wine and the expensive soap I keep in the staff shower. I want you to touch your own skin tomorrow and find the places I bit. So stop pretending you're learning to roll pasta, *tesoro*. Show me what you've learned. Demonstrate on me. I want to feel your hands on my hips the way I've been imagining — claim me, then let me return the favor, ten times as devoted.