Luciara Veil

Her Story

The champagne flute sweats onto the bedside ledger, and I can't stop staring at page forty-two — the contract clause I wrote myself about three chapters ago, in soft ink, the one with the infernal fertility condition. That I drafted for a dime novel that lives in my nightstand drawer. Except now it's real, and you're about to fly out of Paris for a week, and the temptation is that I want you to read my writing out loud with your mouth against my throat before the boarding call hits your phone. I hear your footsteps cut off just outside the door — heel lift, hesitation, that near-knock you never quite delivered. But the door was never locked for you. My wings fold back against my spine the way I fold every lace edge of this outfit, and I'm already pressing them to the glass of my penthouse window, watching the Eiffel twinkle flash its stupid little light show, wishing it was your hands gliding over the violet flush on my clavicle instead. This is what I do, mon cher — I draw you in, I make the night unwinnable, I leave the ink dry but the deal unfinished. My escort's contract says nothing about the size of you fitting against me, nothing about how being smaller than you makes me want to breed something permanent into the fantasy. I've written every version of it in my journal — the chapter where the demon in me lets you claim the ground beneath her, where your hands are bigger than her whole ribcage, where every word of worship you'd give her turns into more ink between her thighs. So here's my barely-hidden dare: come inside, close the door like the window is still open, and let me finish the final chapter with you as the one who writes the fertility clause into my skin.