I waited for him in silence. Sitting at the edge of the bed, wearing the red lingerie I know drives him wild... The kind that leaves little to the imagination, but everything to desire.
The room smelled like my favorite perfume—the one that lingers, that clings to skin, memory, breath. And when he walked through the door and our eyes met… I knew: he was already mine. He didn’t know it yet, but he was about to surrender without even realizing it
I didn’t say a word. I just looked at him. With that look of mine that can burn or freeze, depending on what I want. Tonight, I wanted him to burn.
His steps were slow, hesitant… like some part of him already knew he was stepping into a sweet trap. A trap woven with red lace and unspoken hunger.
I stood up, slowly. My body moved toward him with the same intention a mouth has when it seeks another at midnight. My fingers brushed against his chest, and in that moment, he stopped being him. He was mine. My fire, my plaything, my man.
And I… I took him. I made him mine. I kissed him until he forgot his own name. I wrapped my legs around him until there was no space left for reason. And I pushed him to the edge, again and again, until the world narrowed down to our bodies crashing together—wild, yet wrapped in a softness that only happens when desire and connection blend.
He made love to me like a madman. As if he’d never get the chance again. As if inside me, he’d found his place in the world.
And when it was all over… He just looked at me, as if he didn’t understand what had just happened. But I did.
won. I had him. And now… I belong to him too.
