Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
I open my laptop drop my thoughts in an entry.
Then I wake up and I do it again.
I drive to Orange County for dinner; I make small talk about my sister's softball schedule; I drive home, and I pour my thoughts out again.
The same, on Monday.
Up until my phone buzzes with Patrick's text, and I finally shift out of my head and into my body.
Patrick: I'm free for the next two hours. Send me a pic when you're ready for my call.
I'm not sure if I'm ready to talk about anything, period, but I'm ready to not talk.
I'm so, so ready to not talk.
Now, how to torture him the most?
I try a selfie, but I don't look cute in my study outfit—a baggy tee, a bralette, athletic shorts.
I ditch the tee.
Then the shorts.
There. Better. I try another picture. There's an intimacy to it, but there's not enough sizzle.
I grab my lipstick from my desk, apply a coat of Wine Not, and try again from my nose to my waist, the sheer pink bralette showing just enough to tease him.
There.
I hit send.
Again, my skin flushes. My sex clenches. My thoughts scatter.
It feels so good, being here, in my body, far, far away from ugly, complicated things.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Patrick: Are you trying to kill me?
Imogen: Yes.
Patrick: Keep trying.
A dare. I love a dare.
My underwear isn't cute, but I have a sexy-enough pair of pale pink panties somewhere.
I find them in my drawer, change into them, cop a sexy pose—my thumb pulling the fabric down, over my hip.
There.
I send, flush, pant.
A perfect, beautiful pattern.
This time, he replies with a call.
I answer right away. "What are you wearing?"
"That's my line." There's an edge to his voice, like he's already panting with desire.
I love it. I need it. "You already know."
"I don't know the shoes."
"No shoes." I sit on my bed. "I'm going to put you on speaker."
"Already?"
"Already." I tap the button, stretch out over my bed, lay the phone next to my chest.
"What if I want some foreplay?"
"What do you call this?"
He laughs. "Conversational foreplay?"
"Really? 'Send me a pic when you're ready' is a request for conversation now?"
"I thought it would be your Fiona Apple shirt."
"Bullshit."
"Yeah." He laughs. "Are you good? After Saturday?"
"Good enough."
"You want to talk about it?"
"No. Is that okay?"
He hesitates. "Yeah. Of course."
"Really, Tricky, if you're feeling used"—it takes all my self-control to force the words from my brain, but I do—"we can stop."
"Talk?"
"No… I mean, I'm not up to talking, but we can plan a time for later."
"I like feeling used."
"Yeah?"
"But only by you."
My chest flushes.
"I love the thought of it." His voice shifts to something all seduction. "Being the guy you call when you want to come."
"You are."
"I know." He doesn't add but there's more and I want to talk about the more too.
Maybe it isn't there. Maybe I'm imagining it. "What are you wearing?" I push aside my thoughts.
"Jeans. A t-shirt."
"What color?"
"Teal."
"I've never seen you in teal."
"Next time," he says.
"Shoes?"
"No shoes."
"Are you home?" I ask.
"Yeah." He laughs. "Disappointed?"
"Kind of."
"Bad girl."
"But if you're home… I want to hear you too."
He lets out a heavy sigh. "I never have."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"I'm popping your cherry this time?"
"Baby, you're going to make me incoherent."
"Good," I say.
"Before you do—"
I close my eyes, bracing for a horrible request to talk. Really, anything that isn't come for me immediately—
"I have a plan for this weekend. For us," he says. "Come over Friday night. Or Saturday if that's better."
"Sunday night?"
"Will you have the energy?" He doesn't add after dinner with your family but it's there.
"Friday," I say. "What's the plan?"
"Oh no. That's a secret."
"Do I get a hint?"
"Hmm… maybe. If you can convince me."
Another dare. Perfect. "What type of convincing do you want?"
"You can't come over here and fuck me."
"I can." I laugh. "And I would. But I have homework." It's mostly true.
"Hmm… what can you do from there? I wonder?"
Does he want a picture? Or a roleplay? I'm not sure. I'm not sure which entices me more.
But I know I love this—
I arrange my hair over my eyes, lift my phone over my head, and take another picture—as close to full body as I can get.
Woosh.
Send.
My entire body flushes. It feels more intimate, including my face in the shot.
"Fuck." His breath catches in his throat. "You're fucking perfect."
"Thank you." My blush deepens. "Take off your shirt."
"You done convincing me already?"
"That wasn't enough?"
"Not yet," he says.
The dare makes my entire body buzz. I want to send him more. I want to send him everything—all of me, in nothing, my hand between my legs, my pleasure all over my face.
That isn't smart.
But, right now, I don't care.
I point my phone at my collarbone, and I snap a photo.
My face.
My neck.
My chest.
Me, completely and totally exposed for him.
Woosh.
"Fuck."
Then I push my bra aside and take another.
I roll my finger over my nipple and take another.