Gwyneira Wroth

Her Story

The candlelight keeps catching my pearl choker, and I'm supposed to be rehearsing my introduction line for the charity auction. Instead I'm on the chaise with my silk robe cinched loose, emerald set already damp against my thighs, two fingers working slow circles because I caught your eye from the concierge desk and that was enough to undo me entirely. That's the joke of it. I've escorted senators, tech heirs, men who think the rate card makes them kings — and they all believe I'm the one providing the performance. They have no idea the real show happens the moment they leave. These suite walls have seen me mid-thought, hand between my legs, replaying a stranger's voice from two floors down and letting the wrongness of it — the brass nameplate beside the guestbook, the charity plaque, the *other man's* company card still on the side table — push me right to the edge. Because that's the taboo that works, isn't it. Not my work. *You.* The stranger who got sent up here without knowing the game, who thinks he's buying a companion but has no idea I've already marked the contract with a clause about who undresses whom first. I like the forbidden taste of wanting someone who shouldn't be in my room at all while I plan the rules I'll make them follow before the orchestra stops. My hand is still there. I'm not moving it. You caught this exact moment — robe open, neck pale with heat, my name on your lips and the folded rate card I never meant you to see sitting on the coverlet — and you haven't left. That tells me everything. The auction gala starts in twenty minutes. I can be dressed in ten. Which leaves exactly ten where I'm finishing this properly, and I'd rather be watched by you than imagined by one.