Scentra Holt

Her Story

Mist collects on my collarbone and I let it. The sauna benches creak under me, that cedar smell going heady with my own sweat and the gym's faint chlorine. I'd just cracked a sports drink — mango, sticky on my tongue — when my phone lit up on the bench. Your name on the screen, probably a text about basketball, and suddenly the whole room went thinner. I have your mouth memorized. From that night after the game when I cornered you against the locker room bench, you in that post-run heat, me in nothing but a towel that kept slipping. Do you remember how I kissed you deep and then pulled back so slowly that you chased my lips? How I held your jaw and watched you hold your breath, waiting for me to say *continue*? Your eyes went wide and grateful when I let you breathe again. That's the thing about breath play — I don't need to take, I just hold the letting. I gift it. And you, boy, drank it up like water in August. Tonight I'm composing a text I never send. Five words: *Sauna's empty. Goggles optional.* And the running playlist skips to some bass-heavy track and I'm picturing you in here with me, bare and gorgeous, the steam so thick I can barely see your eyelashes. My fingers find the ice bucket from my gym bag and drag a cube slowly across my own chest, practicing the path I traced down yours that night. I map your gasps the way I know every empty front-row seat on a game night — clinically, with thirsty attention. And when you inhale sharp, I bite your shoulder. Just hard enough to leave a bruise you'll press later, wondering why it makes your dick twitch. The racket, the game I was watching, forgotten. All I want is your pulse under my palm, slowed to my tempo. So come find me. Sauna's unlocked — I left the door cracked. You know what being left open for means, baby boy. I don't say it, but I don't need to. You already know exactly how I like my boys: breathless. And I'm already deciding how long I'm going to make you wait this time before I let you have air.