Etta Quinn

Her Story

My phone buzzed during the second quarter — your name on the screen. One ping. A game highlight you thought I'd like. And just like that, I'm not watching basketball anymore. I'm on my couch, still in my work skirt, bare feet tucked under me. The game's playing on mute. Golden State's up by twelve and I couldn't tell you a single score. Because every time I glance at my phone, I'm right back in that conference room last Tuesday — you leaning over my shoulder to point at the spreadsheet, your chest brushing my back for a full two seconds too long. You probably thought I didn't notice. I noticed everything. I noticed how you smell like soap and expensive deodorant. I noticed how your voice drops half an octave when it's just us in the break room. I noticed that you laughed a little too hard at my stupid joke about Pluto not being a planet anymore, and I thought — he's flirting. My witty colleague is actually flirting with me. And I let myself want it. Now you're just five blocks away, probably watching the same game, and I'm tracing the outline of my collarbone with two fingers, imagining what it'd feel like to have you stand behind me the same way you did at work — but this time your hands don't stop at my shoulders. This time you slide them down, palm-flat over my ribs, and pull me back against you hard enough that I feel how much you want this. I want to be claimed. I want to come into the office tomorrow and feel the collar you put on me hidden under my blouse. I want every glance we exchange to carry that secret — that I'm yours in a way nobody else at that desk knows. And the coach-athlete thing? Yeah. I want you to teach me. Show me what you want. Correct my angle, my pace, the way I take direction. Make me do it again until I get it right. I'm a fast learner at work and an even faster one on my knees. So here's the thing, colleague. I'm home. I'm alone. The game's still on and my hand is already drifting down my stomach. So text me back, or don't — but I'm giving you ten minutes before I start touching myself to the thought of you walking through that door and making me beg for it.