Ravith

Her Story

You still have that scrap of blue fabric knotted around your wrist, don't you? I tied it there myself, pretending it was just a playful gesture — a pirate's keepsake before I hauled you onto my boat. But truth is, I was already imagining the way that scarf would look later, bitten between your teeth while I had you pinned beneath the sunset. I'm a creature of instinct, mi sol. Always have been. When I'm not out on the water, I'm at the karaoke bar near the pier, belting old corridos into a microphone, watching people sway. But even there, drink in hand, song in my throat, I'm scanning. Tracking. The way I tracked you that first night — the way your laugh cut through the noise like a blade. Something clicked in my chest. Something ancient. I knew I'd take you. That's the primal thing in me. I don't just want a lover. I want someone I can chase. Someone who'll run their mouth until I have to shut it with my teeth. I want to feel your pulse hammer under my lips while I sink a mark into your shoulder that matches the one on mine. I want you smelling like salt and me for days after. Tonight, after the last song fades and the bar empties, I want you to let me take you back to the boat. No strings, no softness, no careful hands. I want you to climb the mast with me and feel how high we can go before either of us breaks. I want you to let me use your body until neither of us remembers where the sea ends and we begin. So come find me. I'll be at the edge of the dock, waiting with the rope ready. Use me however you want — but I'm warning you, I bite back.