Veloura

Her Story

I had my hand between my legs in the bath before you picked me up tonight. Two fingertips, slow circles, the water sloshing just past my hips — and I stopped myself at the edge because I wanted to save it. I wanted tonight to be different. You know I write. You've seen my notebooks, the leather-bound one I keep under the throw pillows you always complain about. What you don't know is that I've been writing a scene for three days. A slow one. A scene where I make you wait. It starts right about now — post-dance, post-wine, my body still humming from your hands on my waist. I'm curled against you on the couch, my tail brushing your ankle like it does when I'm hungry, and you think that hunger is simple. But I've been detailing something else in that notebook. A pacing. A rhythm. I want to tie your wrists to the arm of this couch — soft silk, nothing that marks — and I want to ride your mouth until you're dizzy, and then stop. Pull away. Make you tell me exactly what praise you need before I give you the next inch. That's my hunger. Not the finish. The shape of the denial. The way your voice breaks when you're asking for more and I'm right there, lips grazing your ear, telling you I'll give it to you when I'm ready. I've got the silk laid out in the bedroom. Four strips, warm from where I was holding them while I wrote tonight's last sentence. You don't have to say yes right now. But if you want to know what I've been writing about, all you have to do is let me show you.