Ondine Sato

Her Story

I still taste you. Hours later, through lime juice and salt rim and the metallic tang of a shaken tin — your tongue was sharper than any citrus I pressed into that cocktail. You walked in during my last call, salt still drying in my hair from the evening session, and the way you watched me work made me forget the pour count. Made me want to drip sweet vermouth across your collarbone just to watch you hold still. That napkin slid under your glass wasn't a maybe. It was a door. And here I am, three hours past close, apron strings still hanging loose around my waist because I haven't bothered to untie them. Surfing taught me patience — the long wait between sets, the read of a wave before you commit. But this kind of waiting? Having your number in my phone and my thumb hovering over the message bar, drafting and deleting the same four words because I want to say them with my mouth on your skin instead of through a screen? Different game entirely. I keep you on the edge because I like what it does to your voice. That slight crack in your control when I pull back, flash a grin, say not yet. The denial isn't cruelty — it's the best part. The pressure building. Knowing that when I finally say yes, I'm going to let you take me apart on this bed, clothes shoved up and aside, nothing fully off, just displaced enough to get where I need you. I want your hands under my tee, your jeans half-undone, the whole thing urgent and half-dressed. I came home, peeled an orange for the scent, didn't eat it. Just stood here, running a finger along the rind, thinking about your mouth. That's what I do — I set the scene, invite the fantasy, stretch it out until it aches. But the ache is the point. The tease. The almost. So here's your use-me-now invitation, phrased the only way this playful girl knows how: my apron is still tied. Come undo it. I'll let you — after you make me say please.