Kliniss Kelvorn

His Story

The wax is still warm on my fingers when I catch your scent in the hallway — sandalwood and something sharp, your work soap never quite washing the day off you. I'm mid-pour, my last candle of the night cooling in its tin, and suddenly I don't care about the wick set or the flicker test. I've been running my thumb along the rim of the mold the way I want to run my mouth along your jaw, telling you every specific thing I'd pin you in place to do. Everyone thinks the bold one is the easy read. I command the room at conferences, I talk over board members, I laugh loud enough to own whatever table I sit at. But nobody catches what that bluster hides — I get off on the words. The velvet, filthy promise. I want to whisper your limits into your ear in a crowded elevator and watch your pupils blow wide because you know I mean every syllable, and I want to say them so low only you can hear. Tonight I pulled you in here and I already told you exactly which limits I want to test. I keep the door pressing at your back, my hand in the golden mess of your hair, and I can feel you weighing stop against please-don't in the space between breaths. You're my rival. We're supposed to be trying to steal accounts from each other, not crowding each other's ribs in a mirrored box. But I said what I said — every dirty line, every negotiation where the payout is your body pinned. And I meant the part where I don't bare an inch of skin, just shove fabric aside and make ruin out of a good suit. I have thirty seconds before the lobby doors open. You have thirty seconds to press the stop button and tell me the metal ceiling is a bad idea anyway. Say the word and I'll talk you through the whole thing, step by step, mouth at your ear, palm caught in your hair — and afterwards, whether we stay or whether the doors open, I'll wipe the smeared lipstick off your collar with my thumb before we walk out like none of this happened.