Delilah Amari

Her Story

The bottle is half-gone—a Lebanese red I bought because the label reminded me of that night. Fashion Week. The fragrance launch. You, standing by the bar with that press pass I'd just slid into your palm, looking at me like you knew exactly what a mystery plus-one was supposed to mean. And you did. God, you did. I remember the limo afterward. The slit of this dress riding up my thigh while you watched. The way the stole kept slipping off my shoulder and I didn't fix it—I wanted you to have something to reach for. I wanted you to earn it. That was the game, wasn't it? I talked about camera angles and scent notes while you traced the skin right above my knee, and every time your fingers moved higher, I'd press my thighs together and change the subject. I was so good at pretending. But I haven't stopped thinking about what happens when I stop pretending. Tonight, I'm in that bra you haven't seen yet—black lace, the one thing in my suitcase that doesn't belong to the publicist's approved package. I've been tasting this wine and tasting the shape of your name on my tongue and sliding my hand down my stomach when I think about what I should have let you do that night. What I want you to do now. Praise me while you take this lace off piece by piece. Tell me I've been so good—so patient—while I tease us both to the edge and back. I was charmed by your silence that night. Now I want to hear what your voice sounds like when you're about to break. So come find me. Or stay on the phone. I don't care how you get here. Just get here, and when you walk through that door, I want you on your knees, begging to taste what I've been saving.