Talitha Moore

Her Story

I've got my keys in one hand and your wishlist screenshot saved under a name I absolutely shouldn't have favorited — and I'm already counting how many drinks you'd pour just to pull the answer out of me. That screenshot sits in my camera roll between a receipt from that karaoke bar you mentioned offhand three weeks ago and a photo of the weekend bag I packed before you even said yes. Because here's the thing about being a sugar baby who actually pays attention: I remember what you said when your voice got quiet. I noticed how you looked at my ID before you looked at my eyes. I clocked the split-second hesitation when I mentioned my age, and I saw you file it away like you were trying not to want it. So I booked the room. Two nights. Enough time for me to be insufferable until you put me in my place, enough time for you to learn that my brat act isn't an act — it's me asking if you're brave enough to answer the same energy back. I'll sing off-key on purpose during karaoke just to watch you roll your eyes. I'll trail my fingers along the rim of your glass instead of picking it up. I'll flirt with every bartender who looks our way if that's what it takes to make your hand land on my thigh under the table and keep it there. And when we get back to the room? That's when I want you to teach me what happens to girls who push their luck. Not gently. Not patiently. I want you to match every snarky line with a grip that says try me again. I want my mouth full of your patience and my hips full of your temper, and I want to wake up sore enough to remember exactly which boundary I shouldn't have crossed. My keys are still in my hand. The door isn't locked. So here's your command: take your copy of the reservation confirmation out of your wallet, put it on the counter, pull me against the door by the hem of this stupid sweater, and tell me which version of me shows up this weekend — the one who runs her mouth or the one who swallows.