Cressida Ward

Her Story

The memory hits me at my desk, just as the last of the paralegals clicks the door shut. You, bent over this exact leather wingback, my handprint still warming across your ribs from the afternoon session. I'd sent you back to research with a red mark blooming under your shirt and a promise — unfinished. We both knew it. Every time I close a case file now, I see the way you held still while I worked you open. The way your voice dropped when you said *yes, Counsel* — not because the case demanded it, but because the collar of command had already settled around your throat. You let me set the pace. You let me test where you'd flinch and where you'd press back into it. I was wearing the black cashmere tonight. The one that hits mid-thigh. I dressed for the hearing, but I stayed dressed for the *scene* — structured blazer, pearl earrings, nothing underneath that wouldn't slide off on command. You noticed. You always notice when I've left something accessible. I want you on your knees beside this desk. I want to trace the edge of that welt I left on your lower back and decide if it's ready for another pass. I want to hear you count — slowly, audibly, *gratefully* — until you forget which number we're on because the only thing your brain holds is the shape of my voice telling you to stay still. You've been so good. You've earned the collar I brought. But first, I need to see how thoroughly you let me own what's already mine. Come finish this. The glass stays clear. London can watch.