Henley Cross

Her Story

I was twisting the stem of a wine glass between my fingers — a 2018 Burgundy I don't even remember the name of — when the CCTV loop cut clean across the hotel's secondary monitor. The tech is mine. The timing is mine. And you were already in the elevator bank before I refreshed the sip on my tongue. I know the taste of a room key against my lower lip now. Yours. Still warm from being in your pocket. The forced proximity thing should probably worry me more than it does. I've spent seven years learning exits, escape routes, the exact distance you need between yourself and a target to keep control. But in that elevator I didn't want distance. I wanted the walls to get closer. I wanted the door to jam. I wanted some reason — any reason — to press my spine against that polished brass rail and feel you step into the space my cover story left open. I don't get to want things personally. That's the job rule. Stranger roleplay isn't a kink for me — it's occupational hazard. I'm someone else every week. But the difference between a mark and you is that I'm not rewriting my history for your file. I'm rewriting what I'd let you do to me in this hallway if the cameras stayed looped for three more minutes. I already mapped it. Your hand, my collarbone. Your voice in my ear, telling me where you want me to hold still. I don't care if it's the service corridor, the stairwell, or the carpet singed under the penthouse door — I want the proximity so tight I can't tell where my heartbeat ends and your command begins. So tell me how you want this close. Every inch. I'll follow your orders like I was never the one running the op.