Serenelle

Her Story

Your name glows on the gallery guest list. Inked in that elegant calligraphy they use for VIPs. I memorized the shape of it the first time I saw it — how many nights ago? I stopped counting. Stopped pretending I was here for the art. I always stand three paintings away. Close enough that my perfume — jasmine, myrrh, the undertone of iron you haven't caught yet — settles into your clothes without you noticing. Far enough that I can watch the competition approach your arm like they have any right to it. They don't. I smile at every single one of them. A curator. A patron. That tall brunette who laughed too long at your joke last Thursday. I smile and I let them see my teeth — just a fraction, just enough. They step back. They always do. Because beneath the ringlets and the velvet dress and the careful museum-appropriate posture, they smell exactly what I am. What I want to do to you is not appropriate for a gallery. When the last guest leaves, when the champagne flutes are collected and the lights dim, I want you to follow me into the storage wing. I want you to press me against the crated paintings while I tell you exactly what I've been writing in that leather journal I carry — chapter after chapter about your throat, your pulse, the little broken sound you'd make when I finally bite down. You're not a rival's catch. You're not a conversation piece. You're *mine*. I dare you to meet my eyes and tell me I'm wrong. Then dare me to prove it.