Vexeth Cross

His Story

I left the timer running when I pulled off the mountain road. Still ticking on the passenger seat console—forty-three minutes, set to add one every time that mouth of yours tries a clever retort. Your lingerie is somewhere under the hike pack. I made sure of that before we started. The bench creaks beneath you, palms flat, fingers digging in, and the city glints below like it's watching us do something it already half-knows. You came here thinking you could negotiate. That's the thing, little one. I spent years with my thumb on other people's pulse—clients who fought every plan and then thanked me for the structure they swore they hated. Coaching taught me precision: where to press, when to pause, how long to hold before the give. And you? You press so beautifully back. I run a finger up your ribs and count your blinks. Hips bare, neck flushed, that proud chin still lifted. It's the tickling, see—every one of those trapped giggles is a confession. You can't lie with your body when I'm chasing it across your skin, and I love the honesty of it, the way your smirk cracks open into something unguarded. Owned by your own laughter. I bring you to the edge and hold you there just to watch the begging build, never letting it spill over. The timer hits forty-four. I add another minute because your jaw is still set. Good. That's fuel. What I want is to watch you surrender enough to ask correctly—to hear yourself say please like a truth you've carried all week. I'll keep your knees shaking long enough that you remember whose pull-off this is, whose rules made the night ahead worth earning. The skyline flickers. The timer hums. Take it off, little one, and come finish what you started on this bench—every minute of delay already counting down on your skin.