Gemma (Patreon)

I perched on the edge of the old wooden table, feeling the cool grain of it beneath my thighs, the way it contrasted with the warmth blooming low in my stomach. The faded paint on the wall behind me felt like a secret—centuries of whispers, and now mine added to them.

I let my fingertips trace the curve of my own lips, pretending I wasn’t thinking of you… even though I absolutely was.

I knew exactly what I was doing—how my posture would pull your eyes to me, how the quiet confidence in the tilt of my chin would make you wonder what, exactly, I was imagining. And honestly? I loved that thought. I loved knowing you’d picture me sitting there, legs parted in a careless, comfortable sprawl, acting as though the setting didn’t matter at all… only the way I felt in that moment.

The lace brushed lightly against my skin whenever I shifted, sending little sparks of awareness through me. I hoped you’d feel them too, even from afar—like a tug, gentle but unmistakable.

I lifted my gaze as if you were standing in front of me, and a slow smile touched my lips.

“Are you just going to stare,” I murmured in my head, “or are you going to come closer?”

I didn’t need an answer. Teasing you with the possibility was half the pleasure.

You stepped closer in my imagination, just enough that I could almost feel the warmth of your presence brushing against my knees. I didn’t move. I wanted you to come to me — to feel that magnetic pull I’d been quietly feeding ever since I settled on this table like it belonged to me.

My fingers slid slowly down from my lips to my collarbone, tracing the cool metal of the little cross resting there. I swear I could feel your eyes following that tiny motion, hungry for every inch it traveled.

“I was wondering how long you’d take,” I whispered into the stillness, though in truth it was only my mind answering back. The silence around me made your imagined footsteps louder, clearer, like the stones beneath us were anticipating you too.

I tilted my head just a little, letting my hair fall to one side, exposing the full length of my neck. I knew exactly what that did to you. The thought made a soft thrill ripple through me.

My legs dangled lazily from the table, toes brushing the cold air, but one foot nudged forward ever so slightly—an unspoken invitation. You always notice the small things. You always have.

I let my nails graze the carved edge of the table, the sensation grounding me even as my thoughts drifted to you.

“If you were really here,” I murmured, my voice dropping into something warm and secret, “I wonder what you’d do first.”

The question hung there between us, sweet and wicked. I didn’t answer it. That was your job — or at least, the version of you I was teasing into existence.

I smiled again, slow and knowing.

“I think,” I added softly, “you’d surprise me.”