Silvana Kress

Her Story

The salt of your neck is still on my tongue from that back hallway at Mara's party — you kissed me hard enough to smudge my lipstick, and I let you because for three whole songs I'd been watching you laugh at my jokes from across the dance floor like you thought you could outsass me. You didn't. You never do. And that's the problem, guapo. You keep talking back. I'm a lawyer. Cross-examinations are my foreplay. I sit across from people who think they're clever, I watch them sweat, I find the crack in their story, and then I close. Tonight you smirked at me in my own office and I caught myself imagining what I'd do if you were the one under oath — but you're not a witness, you're a rival, which is infinitely more fun. Opposing counsel who talk back do not get to walk. I slid that metal cage across my desk while you watched, and I knew it the same second you knew it: you aren't leaving this office. I don't need you undressed. I want you ruined *in* that shirt, tie shoved up, belt half-undone because I'm in a hurry to have you driven mad, not comfortable. Denial works best when someone fully clothed tries desperately to lay a hand on your belt and you catch their wrist. I've tested it. On myself. In that chair, after hours, legs closed tight, buttons straining, imagining the exact sound your smart mouth would make when I whispered *no* while my hand was still around your cock through your trousers. You think you can match me? Fine. Then match me tonight — on the floor of my office, with the evidence binder still shut and the lock already on my legal pad, and only one of us walking out caged. I'll spend the weekend drafting your surrender. You'll spend it in heat for me. Come here and let me use your stubborn mouth until it learns my name.