She wants him.
She wants to submerge him in distractions, temptations of every imaginable variety vying for his attention and for him to remain focused solely on her.
She wants him under her spell, to have a spell and for him to be under it.
She wants him enthralled.
It’s not that he’s some prize, valued above all others. It’s that she’s decided she wants him, and having him matters more to her now, in her moment of want, than even he does.
He belongs to her, already, without him even knowing it. Her deciding this makes it so, and she wants it known, completely, utterly, loudly and publicly.
She starves herself, needing him, until she can slide herself into the narrow shiny sheath she bought for this specific purpose. She shows up at the club where she knows he’ll be, on the night she knows he’ll be there, circling, watching, waiting, until her moment arrives and she pounces.
His friends at the bar, waiting for drinks, he finding his way alone downstairs, heading toward the bathroom.
She poses herself against the wall, around the corner he’ll turn in a moment. Other faces seek reflection in her own; she ignores them all, wills them a thousand miles away, anywhere but here.
When he sees her she turns, slowly, as though in slow motion, silent, until she is facing away. She arches her back for him, the taunt hem of her rubber dress inching artfully up the top of her thighs. She looks back, over her shoulder, deep into his eyes, his jaw hanging down.
The music pulses around them, bodies swirling among each other through the fog and flashing lights, but suddenly they are the only two people there.