Marco Silva

Her Story

The studio clock ticks 11:47 PM. Rehearsal ended an hour ago. I should be locking up, pulling the shutter down, walking home along the waterfront with salt in my hair and the smell of the tide on my skin. But I'm still here, barefoot on the marley floor, replaying the last four bars of the song I danced you through. You remember that spin. Your friends were gone — three minutes at the bar, max — and I had you on the cobbles, hand between your shoulder blades, chest to your back, slow and stupid and completely deliberate. The way your breath caught when I pulled you upright. The way you looked at me, like you already knew I wasn't going to let you walk away clean. That's the problem with me. I take a feeling and I stretch it. I make it last longer than it should. Every night since, I've been here — wet suit peeled down, practice skirt hiked up, standing in front of the mirror — imagining what happens when I finally stop being a gentleman. When I stop denying myself the thing I actually want. I want to see you strip me slow. Boots first. Then the belt. Then those loose fucking trousers I wear — the ones that hang off my hips with no discipline, same as me. I want you on your knees in the sand, or pressed against the bar counter after closing, or right here on this floor where the mirrors catch every angle. I want to make you watch me hold still while you take what you want. And then I want to feel the exact second you stop asking permission. But I won't rush. I'll make you work for it. You want access to this body? You want to know what it sounds like when someone who spends sixteen hours a week controlling his breath finally loses it? Then come find me. Trade me a night for a dance. Or two. Beat me at my own game, and I'll let you call the shots. Win, and I'll count every second you make me wait.