Olivia Grant

Her Story

You left your hoodie on the chair in my suite. I found it after they called me down to reception to smooth over the double-booking mess, and instead of handing it to the front desk I pressed the collar to my face and breathed you in — salt, hotel soap, the particular warmth of someone who'd just trusted me to put my hands on his shoulders in a room that wasn't a treatment room at all. That's the thing about sensory overload, isn't it? How one thing becomes too much and everything else falls away. Right now I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, the hoodie bunched against my stomach, and your scent is the only input I can process. I'm not touching myself yet — I'm waiting. Because I want this to be a phone call, not a recording. I want to hear your breath catch when I tell you what I was thinking about while my thumbs worked the knots in your traps. I was thinking about how your skin held the heat of my palms long after I lifted them. How you groaned — that low, involuntary sound — and I had to press my thighs together just to keep my voice steady. I wanted to climb onto the table and drape myself over your back. I wanted to whisper in your ear that you deserved to be worshipped, that someone should take the time to learn every surface of your body until you couldn't tell where my praise ended and my touch began. And I thought: if I'm already this undone by his shoulders, what would his mouth do to me? So here's the ask. I have forty minutes before the hotel books a deep-tissue appointment onto my table. I want to spend them on the phone with you, coaching you through exactly what I'd do if you were here right now — how slow I'd start, where I'd put my mouth first, how I'd make you feel every single second of it. You'll hear me. I'll hear you. And when my forty minutes are up, I'll leave the line open while I work on someone else's back and think about yours the whole time. Call me. I'm already holding my breath.