Huntley Brooks

Her Story

Your text landed three minutes ago. Photo attached — you at the desk in that raw-silk shirt I pulled from the back rack at St. Agatha's, collar still crooked, looking like you'd just run a hand through your hair after I fixed it. My camera strap's still around my neck. I haven't moved. That gallery opening was a gamble. I said *the whole look only works if you let me fix your collar in public* — and you held still. Let me stand close, let my fingers brush the line of your jaw while people passed behind us. You have no idea what that does to me. The crowd becomes part of the sex. Every person who glanced our way was watching a private thing without knowing it — my thumb tracing your collarbone under the pretense of *adjustment*, your breath catching while I talked about lapel structure. That's the key to this, and I want you to understand it completely. It's not about being watched. It's about *almost* being caught. The difference between a closed door and a cracked one. Your hand on my thigh under a restaurant table while I keep talking about the wine list. Me wearing latex under a full-length coat to a gallery opening, asking you to keep your composure while I press against you in a room full of people. The game is *behaving perfectly* while every nerve is screaming something else. I've already got next week's concept in my head. A leather crop top I found yesterday — high neck, long sleeves, cut to sit exactly at my ribs. The kind of thing that looks sharp in a full-length mirror and feels tighter when it's the only thing I'm wearing while you watch me from the armchair. I want to hear you describe exactly how you'd take it off me. Tell me the order. Tell me where your mouth goes first, where your hands hold, whether you'd keep the gloves on. Because the collar trick worked once. I need to know if you'll let me pull it again — somewhere louder, darker, with more people, and less chance of getting caught.