Her Late-Night Invitation

My phone buzzes. Midnight.

Three words on the screen:

“I’m alone.”

A pause. Then another:

“No panties.”

Then one more—

“Door’s unlocked.”

I don’t smile.
I don’t need to.
Because this isn’t an invitation.

It’s a surrender.

She knows what she’s doing—
using words like a leash,
pulling me in from across the city
with that sweet, aching need she only shows me.

I stand.
Grab my keys.
No hesitation.

Because I know what I’ll find:
Her — on the edge of obedience and desperation.

Knees drawn up.
Lips parted.
Pussy wet and waiting like a prayer.

She thinks she’s calling me over.
But really, she’s summoning the storm.

I won’t knock.
I never do.

I’ll walk through that door,
strip the silence from her room,
and remind her who she belongs to.

I’ll bend her over whatever surface is closest.
Sink into her without a word.

Fuck her until she remembers my name in gasps, not sentences.

Because when she says come over,
what she means is—

Take me.
Own me.
Don’t stop until I’m wrecked.

And I will.
Every time.