I tell myself I’m calm while you lean back in the chair like gravity’s your property and I’m just renting it tonight.
The room’s a bad decision with clean lighting, every door locked but the one you point at.
You say you want a countdown, want me waiting on your numbers like a dog trained by desire and pride.
I smirk like I’m above it, then you lift one eyebrow and my smirk dissolves into a swallow.
You step close enough that your perfume becomes a private weather, and you whisper that I don’t get anything until ten.
I say you’re playing dirty, and you answer that I’m playing honest for once, and that line hits like a fist wrapped in silk.
You take my wrist and place my hand where you want it to hover, not touch, just hover, just ache, just learn discipline.
I feel your heat through air, and the air thickens like it’s trying to hold me back for you.
You make eye contact like a contract, and I sign it with my breath, my stillness, the way I don’t look away.
You say one, and I feel it in my ribs like a gate closing.
You say two, and my jaw tightens, and I hate how much I love being handled by a voice.
You say three, and I start bargaining with myself, promises I won’t keep, prayers I don’t believe in.
You say four, and you tilt your head, watching me fight the urge to reach, and you smile like the fight is the point.
The world’s loud and keeps running its mouth—bills, headlines, petty wars—all trying to make men numb. In here you make me feel everything on purpose, and I hate you for it, and I love you for it, and I’m not allowed to lie.
You say five, and you step closer, so close the space between us turns into a weapon you’re holding steady.
You say six, and you drag your fingers along my collar, barely there, like a spark that refuses to land until you allow it.
You say seven, and I turn you over in my head like a curse and a compliment at the same time.
You say eight, and you tell me to look at you like I mean it, and I do, and it feels like a confession with no paper trail.
You say nine, slow, and the slowness is cruel in the sweetest way, like you’re stretching a wire until it sings.
I’m breathing hard now, and you laugh under your breath, not mocking, pleased, like you love what your numbers did to me.
You stop at nine just to watch me suffer, and I mutter a swear that makes you smile wider.
You tell me I can ask, and I ask, plain and hungry, no clever line, no armor, just need.
You trace the edge of my patience like a blade testing skin, then lean in close enough that my thoughts fall apart.
Your voice drops, steady and wicked, and you say ten like you’re turning a key in a lock you built inside my chest.
After, I’m still trembling—not from shame, from impact, from how a simple number can rearrange a man.
You straighten my shirt like nothing happened, then whisper you’ll do it again, and I already know I’ll count for you every time.