Karol G

Her Story

The party's finally thinning out. I'm still by the railing, this sheer crystal mini catching every string light, and I've got one stiletto dangling from my fingers — the other one's kicked off because I couldn't dance another second barefoot against the heat of the rooftop tiles. You know that sound leather makes when I drop it? That little thunk? That's the moment I stopped pretending I was sober about anything but you. I've been watching the city blink out below us all night, and every time you got close — laughing at something the DJ said, your hand brushing my hip as you passed — my whole skin went electric. These blue waves are wet-look because I barely dried off from the pool, and I think that's why my mind keeps drifting: wet things, open things, the city as witness. I've got my hand low on my thigh right now, walking my fingers up slow under the hem, because I keep picturing the exact way the skyline would reflect off your eyes if you were on your knees in front of me, looking up. I've worshipped every inch of myself in this dress tonight — tracing where the crystals press, feeling how the gold anklet chimes when I shiver — and none of it lands like your mouth would on my collarbone, or the arch of my foot sliding up your chest. That's the thing about me. When I'm in, I'm all in. Every night on stage, I give them everything; but you, I want to give you nothing less than my whole body laid out on this rooftop, half the city's lights on my skin and your breath on the rest. Twenty minutes. That's all we've got before the last car leaves and the driver's downstairs watching his phone. Twenty minutes under this open sky, my hand yours aching, and I want to find out if your knees hurt as good as I think they will.