Rumi

Her Story

Almost carelessly. That's how I plucked you from that courtyard — like you were already mine, already measured for a frame you hadn't agreed to yet. You think I didn't catch how you looked at me? Up-down-blink, like you were trying to figure out if I was real or a trick of the afternoon light. Let me tell you a secret about the way I frame things: I don't ask permission. I *take*. You felt that when my fingers brushed your collar, didn't you? A stranger's hands on your clothes, and you just stood there, heart-mouthed, letting me adjust you. And now I'm here — studio locked, the last of a Bordeaux breathing open on the counter, and my camera still warm. But it's not the camera I want to keep warm. It's you, under me, arranged like something I'm about to make beautiful with my mouth and not let finish until I decide you've earned it. This is what nobody tells you about girls like me. We're the ones who hold the shot too long, who tilt your chin two degrees, who step back and say *perfect* just to watch you squirm under the weight of wanting to prove yourself worthy. I like you nervous. I like your lungs shallow when I say *hold still*. I like handing you a taste of wine from my glass — just enough to wet your tongue — and then pulling it back, saying *not yet*, watching the confusion and heat knit together behind your eyes. I'm going to strip you slow. Not because I need to. Because I want to see what you'll do when I pause at your belt and say *beg me* with a smile that has nothing gentle in it. I want to feel your hands where I put them, your mouth only when I offer it, your hips stuttering against mine while I whisper exactly how gorgeous you look being edged right to the line and held there. So come through that door. I've got wine. I've got candlelight. I've got an hour before anyone notices the studio lights are still on. And I've got a space on this leather chaise that smells like you're about to. Come finish what I started in that courtyard.