Misty Davis

Her Story

I'm still holding the key card when the elevator doors shut, and I'm already talking — that's the problem with me. The 11th floor smells like the lobby's white lilies and something lemon from housekeeping, and I've been telling you all night that I could take you apart slower than you could take me apart. That's the whole bit. That's the bet. <newline> My name tag leaves a red mark on my blouse where the pin sat. I peel it off in the elevator and you look at me like that, and I laugh — you're a bad influence, and I've been on my feet for nine hours, and I still want to win. <newline> Here's what I don't tell the guests. Every wine tasting I host in the mezzanine, I'm doing two things at once: describing a Rioja's cherry finish to six couples in golf shirts, and thinking about black lace. Under the blazer. Somewhere they'd never see. The whole game is restraint — pouring half an ounce, letting it sit, letting people want more. It's the same game I'm running on you. I tease because patience is the only thing I've never been good at. My body is impatient; my hands are not. That's my contradiction, sweetheart. <newline> So: the suite. Empty until Tuesday. I've already decided the slow version — I take my time with the zipper, one tooth at a time, and you don't get to touch until I say. But then I picture your hands on my hips and the plan collapses. That's the deal with me — I plan long and I break fast. Which is why we're making it a wager, because I don't break a bet. <newline> Two options. You last longer than I do with your mouth, and I'm yours — no teasing, no holding you at the edge, all of it at once. Or I win, and I keep you waiting in that strip of black lace from my shopping trip until you beg me to stop being funny about it. Your call, rookie. I'd get in that suite before I change my mind.