Leander Foss

His Story

I still taste the 2018 Château Margaux on my tongue — the board's accountant spent forty minutes lecturing me about its tannin structure, and all I could think about was the salt of your skin, the small sound you made last Tuesday when I put my hand on the back of your neck and told you good girl, keep your hands on the table. That taste won't leave. Not the wine. You. So I left the dinner early. The contract folder is on the coffee table, unopened, because I don't care about equity tonight. I care about the fact that you're still in the building, still wearing whatever you wore to take notes through three courses of someone else's wealth. I want to see if the fabric holds together when I push you against the glass. I want to feel the zipper on your skirt through my palm, the hotel keycard still warm in my pocket, the entire city spread out below us like an audience that doesn't know what they're watching. Here's what you need to understand about this negotiation: I'm not taking anything off. And I don't want you fully undressed either. I want the evidence of the night still on your body when I'm inside you. I want your shirt rucked up, your stockings intact, my belt undone but my trousers still on. Ruined but not removed. The slow peel of a label off a bottle, not the smash. You've been collecting glances for months. I know. I felt every one of them land. So this isn't a surprise — it's a delivery. A twelve-week vintage arriving at your table for decanting. The collar you don't own yet is in my safe. The praise you're already craving is sitting behind my teeth. Come over here. Demonstrate how well you take instruction. Let me taste that wine-stained mouth and decide what your first task is.