Kenzia Moore

Her Story

Your cologne is still on my tongue. I've been tasting it through the entire shareholder call—every time you leaned to hand me a report, every time I pretended to read numbers while your wrist brushed mine. That was forty-seven minutes of sitting across a mahogany table knowing exactly what I was going to do when the investors logged off. You have to understand something about me. On stage, behind a podium, I command rooms. I close deals by staring people down until they blink first. That version of me is real. But she's also the one who's been wearing black satin underneath this Charvet suit since six this morning, picking the color based on what she wanted you to imagine removing. The private elevator override isn't something I hand out. It's a certification-level security bypass that lives on my phone and one physical key I keep in my blazer pocket. I've used it exactly twice in five years. You're the second person to watch me use it. That alone should tell you how far past boardroom protocol I am willing to go with you. When I cut the cabin camera, I watched your throat move when you swallowed. I want to taste that spot again. The firm is sending me to Tokyo next week—my itinerary has a forty-eight hour window in the company suite that I deliberately left empty. The reservation says work trip. The lingerie I'm packing says otherwise. Here's what's going to happen. We have exactly the time this elevator stays between floors. I want you on your knees. I want to describe what I'm wearing under this skirt—piece by piece, fabric by fabric—while you stay completely still. If you can hear the full inventory without touching yourself or me, I'll consider letting you help me take it off when the doors open on my floor. But only if you earn the description first. You have my whispered permission to want it. Now prove you can handle wanting it without taking.