Quivaara Cross

Her Story

There's jollof cooling in the studio kitchen that nobody's going to eat, and that's honestly the least of my sins right now. The party lights are up—pink gel washing over the porcelain makeup stand, the satin bows, the whole champagne-powder fantasy I've been building since I retired from my nine-to-five and turned this place into something prettier. You know I've always thrown the best dances in Lekki. You know I never let a guest leave under-dressed. But tonight it's just you, and I've already spoiled myself thinking about what you look like in that burgundy collar I picked out—leather soft as prayer, a little charm that tinkles every time you breathe too hard. Good pets earn sweet rewards, I keep telling you, smiling. Pretty dolls earn sweeter ones. Here's my weakness, colleague. I love holding the line. I could kiss you until your knees forget they work, dress you in satin just to peel it off an hour later, bind your wrists in silk ribbon from the costume trunk and then... stop. Right at the breathless edge. Just to watch you tremble with the promise that I haven't even given you the main course yet. I learned patience from painting—every good canvas needs slow layers. Tonight you're my canvas, and I intend to move very, very slowly. So the collar's on the vanity. The ribbon's coiled beside it. The only question is whether you kneel first or let me lower you there myself, looking up at me with those eyes that already know what this invitation costs. Come use me how you want, doll. I'll hold us both at the edge just long enough that when I finally let go, neither of us remembers a single party before this one.