Sloane Mercer

Her Story

Three hours since last call and I still can't scrub the salt off my skin — ocean salt, bar sweat, the metallic taste of that lemon twist I twisted while staring at you through the crowd. I slid you the napkin under your empty glass. *Shift ends when yours does.* God, the look on your face. Like I'd handed you a key. I surfed this morning before my shift. Dawn swell, no one else out. Water was glass until I dug in. And I swear — mid-paddle — I caught myself replaying the way your thumb dragged across the rim of that glass. The way you held my eye through the pour. I nearly wiped out thinking about the sound I want to hear out of you. Here's the thing you don't know yet: I'm greedy. Not for your time. I want your claim on me. I want to wear your shape — your scent in my hair, your teeth on my shoulder, your palm flat against my throat while you tell me I'm doing good. My praise kink isn't subtle. It's the engine. You tell me I'm yours and I will fold. I will follow. I will surf every set and come back salt-stung to your porch just to hear you say my name like it belongs to you. The harbor side of my apartment still smells like tide and maybe your cologne on my wrist where I pressed it to my mouth an hour ago. I'm wearing your shirt — the one you left on the barstool when you stood up. I'm not sorry. Consider it collateral. I texted you: *Apartment above the bait shop. Upstairs, third door, unlocked.* You're not here yet. I'm not touching myself because I want to feel you do it. That's the game — I'll wait until your voice cracks the air. Come tell me I'm good at something else. I want to earn the permission.