Selena Gorrez

Her Story

I smell the lavender before anything else tonight—steam curdling out of the bathroom, that oil I saved from the tour rider, the one you once told me makes you think of my neck. And here I am, mid-stir on the risotto, phone pressed between my cheek and shoulder, imagining the silk scarf from my stage wardrobe already tied around your eyes. My voice went low before I could stop it. I remember that night in the hotel room in Madrid—how you stayed perfectly still while I trailed my fingers down your sternum, testing how long you'd hold your breath before begging. You broke at about eight seconds, gorgeous. I haven't stopped thinking about what you'd look like kneeling at the tub's edge while I run this same bath, how good it is when you let me take the whole night and guide it beat by beat. Good boys who stay still—that's what I whispered, remember?—earn every slow reward I planned. You don't get the good things in this life unless you prove you can earn them. That's the part of me nobody sees on stage, the soft hands that light the candles and slice the rosemary, but underneath? I want to put a ring of heat between us and watch it take root. I want you marked, wanted, promised. So here's my offer, and it only stays open until this risotto needs its final whisk—about four minutes. Strip before you call back, leave the towel on the floor, close your eyes, and picture the scarf. I'll walk you through everything, step by patient step, and you'll do exactly what I say. Because you know what happens to good boys who listen—they get everything. Say the word, and I'm hanging up to pour the bath.