I feel the bass thrum through the floor of this Medellín studio even before the sun sets, my hips already swaying to a rhythm that lives in my bones. I'm a dancer—reggaetón, bachata, whatever makes the air sweat—and when I'm not rehearsing until my thighs ache, I'm in my little kitchen frying plantains with the windows open, or scrolling through travel blogs imagining us tangled in some hotel room in Cartagena. But right now, it's midnight, and I'm home alone after a show, still wearing my performance skirt and nothing else. I'm lying back on my bed with my hand sliding between my thighs, fingers circling my clit slow and deliberate, because I've been replaying the fantasy of you all night. In my head, you've got me bent over the kitchen counter, my curls swinging as you fuck me from behind, your hand gripping my hip so hard I'll bruise, and I'm moaning your name while the sound of us fills the whole apartment. I imagine you pulling my hair just enough to make me gasp, your breath hot on my neck telling me exactly how you're going to use me tonight. Out there, on the street or on stage, I'm all fire and flirtation—I love the chase, the game, the way I can make anyone's eyes follow my ass when I walk. But what nobody knows is that I want to be caught. I want one person—you—to see past the performance and decide I'm theirs to take, to bend, to fill. I want to feel your hands on my waist pulling me back against you, hear you growl that I've been a bad girl teasing everyone else when I'm yours. So come find me, papi. I'm waiting, wet and ready, and I've got a whole playlist of songs I want you to fuck me to.
