Between my thighs is not yours.

Between my thighs is not yours. Your eyes drop where I want them, on the shape of my thighs as I cross them, on the curve that keeps you locked in place. You imagine what waits between them, but I keep it hidden, because you don’t own that space. I lean closer, my anklet brushing against my skin, my heels pressing into the floor as I let you feel how near I am. You don’t move, you don’t touch. You only watch, restless, while I decide how much longer you will stay wanting. And you will stay, because what you crave between my thighs will never be yours until I command it.