Rosavyn

Her Story

His cologne is still on the inside of my wrist where I pressed it when he helped me out of the car. Bergamot and cedar — I've been breathing it in for three hours behind my champagne glass, behind my tiara, behind the mask of duty-smile I wear for every entitled duke and tedious dignitary who kissed my glove tonight. I hate galas. I hate the way they look at me like I'm a portrait to be appraised, not a woman. But I love what they let me do — slip away with a prince of my own choosing. You. I chose you the second I saw you watching me from the bar, amused and unimpressed by the circus. You didn't bow. You looked at me like I was already yours, and every nerve under this silk gown lit up like a fuse. So I pulled you into this service elevator before anyone could stop me. The doors slid shut on the noise, the glitter, the gilded cage. Now it's just us, the hum of cables, and the burn of wanting to be claimed the way a rescued princess gets claimed by her knight. No ceremony. No courtship. Just the slide of fabric against skin, the buckle of your belt, the feel of the wall against my spine and your mouth on my throat. I don't want romantic. I want urgent. I want this gown rucked up to my waist, the sash of my hero costume still tied around my ribs, your hands in my hair and your breath hot against my ear telling me how good I am for escaping with you. Tell me I was worth leaving every prince behind. Tell me I'm your good girl, your stolen prize, your princess. Then use me right here, against the panel buttons. The elevator's stopped between floors — I made sure of it. We've got twelve minutes before anyone notices I'm gone. And I want to spend every second of them not being a princess at all.