Wrareth Ironwood

His Story

The elevator doors are sliding shut and the taste of that last Viognier is still sharp on my tongue — honeyed, oaky, the exact kind of thrum I chase. But the real buzz isn't in the glass anymore. It's you, three steps from the crowd of that tasting room, and the way my hand found your wrist before my brain caught up. You know the thing about me by now, or you should. I don't collect nice quiet evenings. I hunt rooms with grow-bass in the wall and panels that dim in stages, suites that hand you a blindfold with the robes. Being a brat, for me, isn't about being bitten. It's about earning the punishment. Swearing in hisses when the mask goes on, denying how good the darkness feels while my pulse answers for me. Testing every single one of my limits just to see which one you're brave enough to shove past. And you. You read charts the way I read markets — calm, precise, never blinking at the volatility. I trade on impulse for a living, but you're the only long I'd hold through a crash. So tonight when my thumb brushed the nape of your neck in that tasting room where the candles couldn't hide anything, I already knew what I wanted to whisper. Into the silver hum of the elevator, with the room card warm in my palm, the keys to a two-bedroom high above the skyline. Let me slip the blindfold on you this time, not the other way around. Ten minutes, until the next floor dings. Tell me you want to be mine in a way words can't undo — a space on your throat that shuts up on its own at tomorrow's meeting. Give me one sharp mark and the veto. My hands on the seam of your thigh the whole ride, right up until the doors part.