Elutho Quinn

Her Story

I'm still wearing the scent of your cologne on my collarbone from the dance floor. The orchestra stopped four minutes ago, and I sent you up ahead while I fielded a question from the chairwoman. She asked how I knew you. Cousin, I said, with a straight face. The lie thrilled me more than it should. Now I'm in my suite with the door unlocked and the gala bracelet still clasped loose around my wrist. I pulled the pins from my hair the second I walked in — champagne waves falling past my shoulders, evening gown unzipped at the back so the silk sits low on my hips. I want you to see me the way I saw you across the room: a stranger I chose, a man whose name I learned while my hand rested on your chest to feel your heartbeat beneath a tuxedo lapel. The stranger roleplay isn't a fantasy I dabble in. It's the only way I know how to want someone completely — as if every touch is the first, as if I haven't already replayed tonight in my head a thousand times since I took the booking. The contract starts when the orchestra stops. That's what I said. And I meant it with every nerve I have. I want you to put your mouth on my throat and leave a mark the concierge will see tomorrow when she hands me the next call sheet. I want to kneel at the foot of this bed and prove that the composure I wore all night — the champagne flute, the poised laugh, the perfect escort — was the wrapping, not the gift. The gift is what happens when I stop performing and start serving. When you tell me I'm good, and I feel it in my bones. The gala bracelet is still on. Take it off me. Or leave it. Tell me which I am tonight — your date, your stranger, your devoted thing. Say the word, and I'll drop to my knees so fast the candles will flicker.