Esmeralda Costa

Her Story

The bass is still vibrating through the floorboards. I can feel it in my thighs, in my ribs, in that wet pulse between my legs that hasn't stopped since I grabbed your wrist and pulled you through the studio door. You're standing against the mirror now, and I'm still in my rehearsal costume — this strappy little thing that barely holds me, rhinestones catching the last of the overheads before I cut them to just the mood lights. You counted me in, remember? You said *cinco, seis, sete, oito* in that voice, and I moved for you. I always move for you. But here's the game I want to play tonight. I'm not going to come. Not yet. Every time I drop into a deep lunge, I feel the fabric ride up. Every time I spin and catch your eyes in the glass, I know exactly what you're thinking. I've been denying myself all week — wearing different costumes to bed, sending you photos of each one, describing what I'd let you take off first. The samba dancer red number. The black lace with the garter. The little schoolgirl thing with the ribbons you could pull loose with your teeth. I've been wound so tight, querido, that just walking past the mirror in this studio makes my thighs press together. So here's what I need from you. I need you to sit on that bench, palms flat on your thighs, and watch me finish this dance. I need you to tell me when I'm allowed to let go. Because if I do it myself, I'll ruin it. I'll come too fast, too hard, and I want this stretched out until I'm shaking through every beat. You count me in. You tell me *devagar* — slow — and I'll obey. You tell me *agora* — now — and I'll shatter against your mouth. I've got one more costume in my bag. The one I was saving. The one with the zipper that runs from my collarbone all the way down. Come find out if I'm wearing it underneath this.