And I need them to know, every single one of them, that I don’t do lukewarm. I don’t date. I devour. I rearrange my atoms to fit around the people I want. And right now I want all three of them choking on affection.
I pad to my closet and pull out the pink trench. The one that swishes with sin and desperation. Matching heels. Waist chain with the tiny pink heart that jingles when I walk, because the world deserves the warning bell.
That’s it. No clothes underneath. Just glitter and intention.
Rhys is going to draw me like this. He has to. It’s not a request. It’s divine fucking will.
I am weaponized love. I am dangerous devotion. I am walking into that art class like a Valentine ready to haunt a man’s therapy notes forever.
But before that I’m leaving presents.
Jett’s is first.
Because he left me in his house with a key to lock up, like I’m not going to interpret that as foreplay, delivering it to his place feels wrong. Easy. Expected. I want him to find me, not expect me.
So I head to his work, slip the bag into his saddlebag, and leave the buckle flapping open like a mouth ready to spill secrets. I steal his remaining glove. A ransom. A promise. A fuck your threat, I’ll enjoy the punishment.
The sun’s almost down. No time to linger. I slide onto the bike like it’s his lap and pop my lipstick, thick and pornographic. I want the kiss I leave on his gas tank to stain. I want him to ride it and see me every mile.
Full mouth. Open lip. A wet memory. A mark he’ll have to rub out with effort.
See you soon, lover.
Benji’s house is quiet. Still warm from the sun. Still his.
His room smells like him, sugar and soap and that obscene innocence that makes me want to do crimes. His gift bag goes on the nightstand like a bedtime story. I linger, fingers dragging along the edge of his pillow before I slide into his bed.
Naked. Face buried in his pillow. Breasts soft and smeared across where his chest would be.
I hump his sheets just a little. Just enough to leave something behind. My scent. My glitter. Maybe a lip print on his duvet. Then I rumple the blankets like we fucked and he didn’t remember.
I kiss the mirror in his bathroom, tongue out. He’ll see it. He’ll know.
I don’t take anything. I just leave myself behind, perfume and pink shimmer and the faint imprint of my thighs on the comforter.
Rhys is the problem.
No address. No invitation. No consent.
Because he’s stingy with intimacy.
I drive to the office, park next to his too-clean car, and scowl at the windshield. I don’t want to leave it there. That’s basic bitch behavior. Rhys deserves drama. He’s not a wiper note guy. He’s a you break in and rearrange his life guy.
While I’m debating, the car chirps.
I freeze. Then, look up.
There’s movement behind the blinds of his office.
No way.
I slide into the driver’s seat and deposit the gift bag in the passenger side. I leave a kiss on his dash with my glossed-up mouth, open, obscene, wet enough to make a priest renounce Christ.
When I get out, the car chirps. Locked again.
I don’t look at the window. I lean against the car. Let the coat fall open. One leg bare to the thigh, no underwear, just glitter and menace.
I blow a kiss toward the blinds. Let him wonder.
