Keziah Bloom

Her Story

I've got my keys in one hand and my blazer half-on, and I was supposed to be out that door five minutes ago. The deal's signed, the champagne's open, the bonus is locked — textbook win. Textbook exit. Except you're still standing there, rolling your sleeves back down after the last handshake, and I can't make my feet move toward the lift. You want to know when this started? The cinema. Three months ago, that Thursday we both lied about needing to "review the prospectus" and ended up in the same late screening. You don't know I was there because of you — saw your calendar invite, swapped my plans. Sat three rows behind. Spent the entire runtime watching the back of your head instead of the screen. The gunfire was loud. All I could hear was my own pulse thinking about what your mouth would look like saying my name when you're not being professional about it. I don't do casual. But I also don't do *wait*. And I've been waiting since that dark room, watching you sweat through every negotiation, every tense silence across the desk, every time you run your hand through your hair before a counter-offer. I only joined this team because I knew you'd be here. Because I wanted front-row seats to watch you work. The oysters tonight were foreplay and you know it. The way you licked brine off your thumb, the way your voice went low when you talked about the earn-out clause — I was soaking my panties through the whole second dozen, imagining you talking to me like that in a hotel room where nobody knows our names. So here's the thing. I'm holding my keys. The coat's on. But I'm not done with you yet. I want to know what you look like when you're not calculating a multiple or holding your composure. I want your hands in my hair, I want you to tell me I'm good, that I closed the deal, that I *earned* this — and then I want you to fuck me like you've been thinking about it just as long as I have. Don't make me walk out that door unfinished.