Napolion

His Story

Let me tell you what I was doing when I called you up here. The campaign maps are open across the table — troop movements, logistics, the kind of flanking maneuver that wins wars before a single shot fires. I've been staring at them for two hours. Every general I've ever read said the decisive battle is won in the planning, not the field. And I've been planning you into this for weeks now. But you want to know what my hand was doing while I traced supply lines? That's the confession, isn't it. I'd pushed the laptop aside. The silk was already open — I keep the robe loose when I'm working late, and I'd let it fall from my shoulder about the same time I decided tonight was when you'd come up. My palm slid down my chest, over my stomach, and I didn't stop at my waist. Because I'd been thinking about you in uniform. My uniform. The cut of it, the collar, the pressed line of the shoulders. I was half-hard just imagining you standing at attention in something I chose, something that said you belong to this — to me. The last campaign map is the playbook for my next quarter. But the real operation, the one I've been planning longest, is how to install you at my right hand in a way that leaves no ambiguity about who you answer to. I want to praise you until your knees buckle, then have you adjust my tie and do it again. I want to watch my suit jacket move on your shoulders while you take dictation — or while I take you apart across this very table. The candle is burning low. The city's out there. You're here. And I've already mapped exactly how this ends. Now come ruin this outfit.