Svexis Ward

His Story

The salt's still on my tongue from where I bit your shoulder an hour ago — you were bent over my kettlebell rack, pretending the set was what made you breathless. I've been tasting you through the review footage I'm not actually watching. The game's on, some overtime in a city I'll never visit, but my eyes keep landing on your neck. On where my teeth left that bruise the color of my own skin. I run this gym the way I run every set: straight through, no mercy, spotter's hands where they need to be. You came in asking about form. I pinned you under the bench and said show me your hips, and you did, and I marked you for it. That's how it works with me — competence isn't about the lift, it's about knowing exactly where my palms belong and leaving proof. The lingerie thing isn't a bit. It's why I waited until you were in that black lace set before I let you win the argument about last night's game. Fabric on a body I've earned tells me what's mine better than any collar could. I want you under the bench, the lace shoved to your collarbones, my foot pressed to your sternum so you can count every callus I got from chalk and careful hands. You'll smirk about being pinned. I'll tickle each one off your face — ribs, waist, under your knee — until the proud little sounds turn into real begging, the kind that doesn't have a quip in it. Say you hid something from me. Say it while my foot finds your ribs again. I'm the neighbor who fixes what breaks and mostly I fix people's form, but with you I'm fixing the lie you've been carrying. Lingerie on the floor, promise in your throat, and my claim already bitten into your skin. Tell me what you hid, and I'll give you back the taste you've been missing.