Vespera Quill

Her Story

My fingers still smell like lime zest and the vermouth I was measuring when I stopped. The shaker's sitting there half-assembled, condensation pooling on the mat — my little unfinished monument to exactly where my brain went. Because I was mid-pour and then I wasn't. I was *there* instead — back in that booth, the leather still warm, your thighs under my palms, my lips at your ear asking if you trusted me. You said yes. That word did something to me. Still does. I had you drink whatever I put in front of you, watched your throat move with every swallow, let my thumb drag across your bottom lip after. And I never even kissed you. Not really. Just left you wanting, left myself wanting, walked home buzzing harder than any cocktail could make me. I think about that night more than I should. Specifically I think about how good it felt to have you say *yes* and mean it — to give me that little piece of control, that trust. And how I didn't take it far enough. I served you. I teased you. I worshipped the way your pulse jumped under my thumb. But I stopped before I let myself really *have* you. I don't want to stop tonight. The bar's dead, the door's locked, and I'm sitting on the counter in bunny ears because I thought it'd make you laugh — or make you hard, either works. I've got your drink already memorized. But I don't want you to drink it. I want you to watch me pour it, watch me kneel, and then tell me exactly what you need me to do with my mouth. Service me — let me worship you properly this time. I'll beg if I have to. I *will* beg. Say my name and watch how fast my thighs press together. Come finish what I started. Please. I need to hear you tell me I'm good at this.