Handle me

He thought nothing could break him. He was wrong.

He messages me first. Cocky. Predictable. The kind of line that makes most women roll their eyes and move on. “You couldn’t break me if you tried.”

I laugh at my phone, stretched across my couch with a glass of wine in my hand. They always start this way. The motorcycle boys with tattooed knuckles who think confidence is the same thing as stamina. I can almost hear the swagger through the screen.

I type back, slow. “Sweetheart, you couldn’t handle me for one night.”

The little dots appear instantly. He’s hooked in now. He swears he’s down for everything, that he’s never flinched, that no woman has ever made him tap out. He tells me I’d be ruined for anyone else after him. The kind of boast that usually makes me hit block. But instead, I grin, as I brush my lips against the rim of my wine glass.

I like a man who thinks he’s invincible. They break the prettiest.

I poke at him, little brat daggers in every message. “Sure, big guy. Keep saying that. I’d have you begging before sunrise.” He bites every time. By the second hour we’re locked in a duel, his arrogance against my sharp tongue.

Then he slips.
“Too bad you don’t live in my city. I’d prove you wrong tonight.”

My smirk is automatic as I type. “Funny. I do.”

The pause that follows tastes sweeter than the wine.

A week later, I feel him before I see him. The bass at the club is a pulse in my spine, and I can feel the sweat on my back, when something prickles the back of my neck. Eyes.

I turn, and there he is.

Taller and more muscular than I expected, his leather jacket is hanging open to reveal the tattoos that climb up his throat. His eyes are lit with that cocky “I told you so” gleam. He doesn’t move. He just watches me. Drinks me in from across the room like he’s already planning how to take me apart.

But I know the truth. I always know the truth. He isn’t hunting me. I’m baiting him.

So, I turn back to the bar, sip slow, and let my body sway with the music. When our eyes catch again, I smirk, lift my drink in a lazy toast, and turn my back on him.

Men like him don’t handle being dismissed very well. But they sure love the chase. Sure enough, I can feel him in my orbit, circling closer and closer.

When I finally step outside under the buzzing neon sign, he finally closes the gap.

“You think you’re ready for me?” His voice is gravel and smug as hell.

I step into his space, so close my perfume clings to his jacket. “Ready for you? You’ve been stalking me all night, babe. Looks like you’re the one who’s ready.”

His grin sharpens. “Prove it.”

“Okay then, let’s go. You got a second helmet for me?” I ask smirking.

At my place, he moves like he owns it. Tosses his jacket on the chair, sprawls across my couch, legs spread wide like a king waiting to be serviced. It would almost be cute if it weren’t so predictable.

For a good minute, I let him think he’s in control. I like to watch men hang themselves with their own rope like this.

Then I move.