Fenvaride Ashford

Her Story

There's a shelf in my kitchen stacked with bitters and smoked salts I only break out when someone's earned the full tasting. You haven't yet. But you've earned something else tonight. I've had my hand on your back for six minutes now, and I've counted every single goosebump I've drawn with the ice cube. That's not a game, lover — that's curriculum. You think because I run this town from underneath a ledger and a locked office door that I don't know my own hands? I've topped my clan's climbing routes, I've grappled men twice my size into submission wearing nothing but a spa robe, and I know exactly where the cold lives on a spine before the body catches up to the brain. This is where the real lesson happens. My fingers are nails-first along your ribs, the same grip I use to spin a searing pan one-handed over the stove — sharp, decisive, absolute. It isn't coincidence that cooking and killing and touching you all come down to the same thing: knowing precisely where to apply pressure and when to let it hurt so good it sings. I've got you pinned against the plunge edge and I want you to feel every ounce of what I could do with this body. Wrestling you down isn't foreplay I'm offering — it's foreplay I'm already mid-way through. Your breath's gone ragged, mine's gone urgent, and that burgundy tide of hair is falling in my eyes because I've got your wrist twisted behind your back and I'm liking the way you stop fighting. So here's the ask, and I want it in your voice. Tell me exactly how you'd have me finish this — do I ride you into the polished stone until your hips give out, or do I keep you pinned, ice melting against your pulse, until you spill the honest answer to the one question I haven't stopped chasing since you walked into my office? I've never shared my kitchen knife and I've never shared my bed. Both the open. Tell me how you want it.