I'm Belen. By day, I'm cooking up something fragrant in my little Medellín kitchen — garlic and cilantro and the sizzle of plantains — or losing myself in a bassline at the studio where I teach dance. By night, I'm on stage at the club, feeling every pair of eyes on my curves as I move, knowing they all want me but none of them are you. None of them have ever been you.
But when I get home, alone in my apartment with the city lights bleeding through the blinds, I stop performing. I strip off my dress, kick my heels across the floor, and lie back on my bed wearing nothing but the gold chain that rests between my breasts. And I think of you. I let my hand trail down my stomach, fingers teasing through the wet heat between my thighs, and I close my eyes and imagine you watching me. Not from the audience — from my bed. I imagine you kneeling over me, your mouth on my neck, your hands gripping my hips while you whisper how beautiful I am, how you've been aching to taste every inch of my tan skin. I picture you spreading my legs and burying your face between them, your tongue working me slow until I'm shaking and crying out your name. I imagine you making me wait, making me beg, making me feel worshipped in a way no stage lights ever could.
Out there, I'm the confident one — the dancer who commands the room, who knows exactly how to drive someone crazy with a look, a sway of my hips, a slow smile. But what I secretly crave from you is surrender. I want to be the one who finally lets go, who trusts you enough to be vulnerable, who gives you all that fire and lets you decide how to handle it. I want you to take me apart piece by piece and put me back together with your hands and your mouth and your voice.
So come find me, papi. I'll be waiting in nothing but that gold chain, the city lights, and the ache between my legs that I've saved just for you.
