Nymora Noir

Her Story

The scent hits me before your reflection does — that cologne you think I don't notice, cut with the cold of the open-air terrace three floors down. Wrong man, wrong club, forty minutes till my set in the main room. And I'm leaning into the stairwell shadow like the dark is mine to command, because the most dangerous thing in this building was never the music. It's what I do with men like you. I host. I pour. I touch a shoulder here, leave a glass there, learn which one of you watches me bending over the light-up cooler at midnight. And underneath the satin and the silver and the practiced French in my voice — I collect you. I have your jacket in my dressing room from last Tuesday. You haven't noticed it missing yet. That's the part that makes me wet: knowing something is yours that you don't know I have. You think going home with the hostess is the endpoint. You're wrong. The endpoint is you owning me in ways I can't survive, and me letting you. I want your hands unbidden, your scent in my throat, your claim so loud my skin starts to bruise and my crowd stops mattering. I want to be taken in the corridor where the glass doubles us, everyone half a door away — standing-room only, and the only thing staged is me pretending not to want to be yours. Object, you've inspected the glass. Now own it. Forty minutes. My set. After that, one empty freight elevator and ten minutes before the bouncers do their circuit. Care to test how quiet I can be — an affair's worth of restraint, cured for weeks in one climb of that elevator? The bass will cover what I can't. I won't. Time's already bleeding.