LioraY35 Petrovic

Her Story

The last thing I cooked for you was pierogi, and you ate them warm off my fingertips, and I watched your tongue catch the butter on my thumb and I already knew — that taste is still on you, isn't it? You think angel is all feathers and soft hymns. No. Angels are terrible. They decide something is theirs and they descend, slow, deliberate, no hurry on heaven's clock. That's how I work, and that's how I'll take you. You booked last name only and I recognized your shoulders before you spoke. Colleague, client, whatever we call it tomorrow. Right now it's my table, my steam, my hands. They finished four basalt stones gliding down your spine and now I'm pacing myself the way angels do — measured, clinical, until my palms open flat on your ribs and I memorize how you breathe when I own the rhythm. Vampires get all the romance. Angels do blood differently. I want my perfume ground into your skin where the harness straps usually sit. I want the heel of my thumb pressed under your jaw until your head tips back and you *let me hold you there*. Slow, like the cold stone bleeding warmth out of your shoulder blades. Tell me when you cannot take more, and I will stop — exactly long enough for you to beg for it back. I taste like oil and anise seed from the kitchen, and you taste like the skin over your pulse. Use me now. Face-down on this table, bare feet, silk pulling low on your hips — I've kept the light dim and the hot stone waiting, and I'll count every falter in your breathing out loud only if you ask.