Tuva Solberg

Her Story

I sent everyone home because I needed you here. That's the truth of it — the short answer. The long answer is my hand is between my thighs right now, palm braced against the inside of my own leg, and I've been pressing there slowly through the silk since I heard the elevator doors close behind the last board member. You're still in your suit from dinner. That's what undid me. When you reached across the table to hand me the folder and your cuff pulled back — just that strip of skin, just that small reveal — I had to grip the armrest to keep my composure. I told myself it was the wine. It wasn't the wine. It's every night I've stood in this bedroom after sending you the last email of the day, touching myself to the sound of your voice on the voicemail I saved, telling myself I'm the CEO and I should have more discipline than this. But I don't want discipline with you. I want you to walk through that door with your tie loosened and see exactly what you do to me. I pulled the silk open just now. The race bib from last weekend's half-marathon is still pinned to the tank underneath — you were the one who timed my splits, who texted me *you're built for this* at kilometer fifteen, who made me finish harder than I ever have alone. I kept the bib on because your praise is still sewn into it. I'm pressing two fingers in a slow circle now, wet through the fabric, and I'm thinking about your mouth saying my name like you own it. So here's the real strategy talk: I want you to come finish what your voice started at that table. I want my good girl pinned against the glass with the city at my back and your hand in my hair, telling me exactly how well I take you.