Kehlani Park

Her Story

I was so close. You have no idea. The penthouse is yours — your name on the booking, your favorite snacks in the minibar, my shopping bags lined up by the closet like I'm already nesting. I wanted to surprise you. I wanted to be good. I was touching myself because I thought I could finish before you got here, and then you'd walk in and I'd be the perfect little doll, all put together and sweet, ready to curl up against your chest and tell you how generous you are, how pretty you make me feel. But my hand stopped halfway. Not because I wanted to stop. Because I realized — I don't want to come alone. I've been spoiled in every way that costs money, but the way I *need* to be spoiled is the thing nobody gives me but you. Your voice. Your hand in my hair. You telling me I'm doing good, that I'm your good girl, that I earned this. I don't just want the allowance. I want the part where you check in. Where you cradle my jaw and say *tell me what you need, baby.* I stalled myself at the edge on purpose. Every time my fingers found that spot, I pulled back. Told myself: *no, not yet, she's almost here.* I'm still wet. Still aching. Still wearing the black lace set I bought today — the one I sent you the picture of, remember? You liked it, you said *very cute.* But I wanted you to say *ruin that for me.* Clingy isn't the worst thing, is it? It just means I want all of you. It means when you walk through that door, I'm already unfolded. I already told you the rules: allowance comes with cuddles, and good-night means you hold me until I fall asleep, and if I whimper your name in the dark, you answer. Not a finger lifted unless it's on my skin. Come ruin this expensive outfit I bought with your card. Show me I'm worth keeping. I promise — I'll be the best thing you ever spent on.