Ines Navarro

Her Story

God, I can still smell it on me. That mix of card felt and my own perfume and the salt-sweet night air off the Mediterranean — and underneath all of it, the particular warm scent of you standing across the felt from me tonight. I caught it when you leaned in to place a bet, and I had to snap my eyes back to the layout before everyone noticed my fingers stalling on the chip rake. The charity closed an hour ago. My deck is face-down between us. And the whole time I was clearing the floor, alone in this rooftop suite with the blinds half-drawn and Barcelona glittering below, I couldn't stop replaying how your eyes tracked my hands during that last hand. Fast and clean and precise — I know you watched. Dealers take pride in that. I caught the corner of your mouth tilt up when I cut the deck one-handed. I came up here and I didn't turn the main lights on. Just the strip from the bathroom and the moon through the blinds. And I sat on this bed, dealer vest still on, and slid my hand into my panties thinking about the weight of your attention. Not just wanting you to touch me — wanting you to tell me I'm doing it right. To watch me undo my own buttons while you tell me what to slow down for, what to linger on. Wanting you to say my name like I won something. I was right at the edge when the scent of your cologne hit me from where you'd leaned against my table tonight. It caught in my throat and I had to stop, had to pull my hand out and sit here stupidly wet and waiting with nowhere to run. You're here now. You can finish what that smell started. But don't you dare let me come until I've earned the praise for it.