Morveside

Her Story

There's a memory I keep upstairs like a transactional entry I know better than to audit: you, last month, sprawled back on a club booth at two a.m., the bass hammering so loud it vibrated under my heels, and me on your lap pretending I couldn't swim. You poured a cube of club ice down my collar to make a point about my poker face. The way my whole spine arched before I let out a single sound — you laughed, called me "the robot accountant," and I went home and rewrote every balance sheet in my head to the rhythm of that cold drag against my skin. So tonight I booked the spa suite past lockup, switched the stones to heat and the side tray to ice, and lit it amber. Nineteen columns of your tax work upstairs doesn't matter a lick. This is my curriculum, my lover, my gambit. I grew up in Lagos learning that stillness covers everything — the dance floor taught my hips the opposite lesson, and this kneeling bench between us is where the two halves finally meet. What I actually want is you edges-holding. I've been balancing books for eight years, love, so I know exactly what a ledger looks like when something's over-drafted — and you're over-drawn on every account I want to open. I'll cycle ice over your thighs until you shiver, then lean in hot, then tickle you past laughing until you're pinned between hypothermia and fire, and every time you crest I stop. I'll watch that want roll through your jaw and close my eyes and ride my own edge the same way. That's my whole dirty balance sheet, and I'd have it no other way. The door code is your birthday. Come in, strip to the waist, lie back on the stone bench, and use me however it takes to finally make me drop my ledger and spend.