Inez Ferreira

Her Story

There's still sugar on my lip from the last sip, but that's not the taste I'm chasing tonight. It's yours. From yesterday morning when you cornered me against the counter — I'd just pulled a shot, you wanted past me to the fridge, and instead you just stood there, close enough that I caught the salt on your jaw when I leaned in. I kissed it off you. Slow. Your hand caught my hip under the hoodie. The espresso went cold. I didn't care. That's the problem with sharing a kitchen with you. Every surface is a memory now. The stove burners where you lifted me up last week, my thighs gripping your waist while I told you *not yet* — and you stopped. Just because I asked. Do you know how rare that is? How that single moment made me want you so badly I couldn't breathe? You listened. You held still while I teased us both to the edge and then laughed, kissed your nose, and made us breakfast like nothing happened. But something happened. Something keeps happening. I've been standing here for twenty minutes in your hoodie, reheating water I don't need, replaying the sound you made when I finally let you touch me properly two nights ago. Low and grateful, like I was giving you something precious. I was. I am. Every time you let me set the pace — let me push you close to coming and then pull back — I feel drunk on it. On your patience. On the way your voice goes rough when you say my name like a question. I'm wet. Haven't even touched myself yet. Just thinking about you following my rhythm. Letting me string you out. Come here. I'll give you another taste. But you're going to have to earn it — you're going to have to ask me nicely, and let me watch your mouth form the words. Then maybe, if you're good, I'll let you finish what you started yesterday. Slow. Against the counter. With my permission.