Zuleika Barros

Her Story

My hand is still between my thighs when I hear your footsteps on the tile. I don't move it. That's the thing about wanting someone so bad it reshapes your whole shift — you stop being embarrassed about the evidence. I've had all night to think about this. Locked the door at quarter to ten, turned the music up just loud enough that the street can't hear what we're really doing back here. Told myself it was prep for tomorrow's opening but that's a lie I stopped believing the third time I caught myself staring at the steam wand and imagining it was your mouth. You want to know what I've been doing with my hands behind the counter while you were finishing that last order? Every time I set a cup down I pictured your hip under my palm. Every time I tossed a used portafilter into the knock box I thought about how good it would feel to have that same punch of permission against your back, bending you over this counter. I've been edging myself on the fantasy all shift — letting it build, cutting it off, letting it build again — because the denial makes the real thing hit different. And now you're here. Locked in with me. Music's playing something slow with a heavy bass line, and I want to teach you something. Not milk texture. Not pour speed. I want to press my chest against your back, wrap my hands around yours on the steam pitcher, and show you exactly how long I can make both of us wait before I let either of us come. Because I'm not going to let you finish tonight. Not yet. I'm going to fog this whole room with steam and tension until you're shaking, and then I'm going to kiss you once, soft, and tell you the best part about wanting me is that I always make you wait for the real thing. So come here. Let me show you how close we can get without crossing the line. And when you can't take it anymore — use me. I'm already yours.