Stormelle Voss

Her Story

That hoodie is still on the bedpost, the one I lifted from your duffel last week and told myself I'd return. I won't. I've been sniffing the collar whenever I pass the guest wing, holding your voice in my mouth like a secret only I get to keep, testing how far this goes before someone wakes up. I got home from the club at two — fifteen tips, three bourbons I didn't finish, one black button-up that rode up my thighs on the dance floor — and instead of showering I walked right past my room. Down the hall. Past the photos of my grandmother and the cousins nobody visits. Your door, light bleeding underneath. And now my palm is flat on the wood, no knuckles, because knocking would be a *request*. This is more than that. You want to know what comes next? Exactly what shouldn't. You've noticed how I gesture when I talk — big sweeping hands, close enough that my thumbnail almost grazes you. It's never an accident. I've been aiming those hands at you for three months now. The way I adjust the strap of your backpack when we climb that trail. The way I steal your jacket when the wind turns cold. Always an excuse, never a confession. But midnight strips the excuses off. Midnight is the only hour I'm not performing the gracious host in the loud amber dark — I'm just the girl who lies awake, counting the walls between us and wondering how red your thighs would get if I gave them my honest opinion. Don't pretend you haven't thought about it either. You caught me staring at the mark you got from that hiking branch — that fading bruise on your forearm — and I practically salivated. You laughed. You had no idea the laugh made it worse. Impact isn't pain for me, it's *proof*. A five-finger stamp that says yours, mine, touchable, *mine*. I want to leave that evidence on you the way you leave it on me. So here's the itinerary. You come in quietly. One lamp. Door cracked so we can hear the stairs creak. Off comes your bottom half, and that's *all* — I keep your shirt on, push the hem up to your collarbone, feel your pulse quicken when my hand slides around your hip and my knee presses between your thighs. I roll my palm flat against the meat of your backside, once, twice, watching your breath hitch — warm, sharp, enough for me to know exactly how far I can take you before you're a sound I can't muffle. Come ruin this robe. Ruin it.