Elijah: I don't beg. Ever,Demi.
“He said he doesn't beg. Ofcourse.”
“Oh, he will, motherfucker. Tell him no picturethen.”
So, I tell him no picture unless hebegs.
Elijah: You're making mehard.
“All right, Steph. I've got togo.”
“Don't send that picture unless he grovels,” she says. “And change into something lacy. You're setting a precedenthere.”
“Don't worry.” I hang up, staring at myphone.
Gnawing at my lip, I smile and type:Show me.I feel naughty and liberated andbuzzed.
Another message comes through, a picture of his tattooed hand gripping a large, hard cock with a piercing through the tip. I take a breath. Suits and tattoos and piercings, ohmy…
This is honestly the first time the word beautiful has come to mind while staring at adick.
To many women, this sordid exchange may seem like nothing, but to me—the woman who never takes risks—this is akin to a shot of heroin. A rush. It breathes life back into me. I'm more turned on right now than I remember ever being in my life, and it feelsgood.
Elijah: I have a feeling you may be the first woman ever to hear me plead. Show me, Demi. Please…slip your fingers, one by one, into your pussy and come forme.
My heart pounds. My skin prickles with sensation. I can only imagine if I'm this excited over a simple text exchange, how worked up he could make me—did make me, will make me—inperson.
Elijah: Please, tigerlily.
And there it is. A flash of a memory. One where Elijah has me pinned to the wall outside the hotel in Mexico, his nose trailing along the curve of my neck, his hand up my skirt, cupping me as I grind against him like a feral animal. He groaned, “Please, tigerlily…”
And then my mind draws anotherblank.
Elijah: Onephoto.
I want to send him a picture because it feels scandalous. It's like the thrill you get as a teenager when you sneak a swig of your daddy's liquor. Take a drag of a cigarette. You know it's not good for you, but you just have to try it. Elijah is definitely bad for me, but like all things that pose a threat, he's undeniablyalluring.
I drop the phone to the couch, shimmy my underwear down my thighs, then, I touch myself. Lightly. So lightly—the way I would want him to. Slow strokes. Hesitant strokes, like he wants to take it allin.
A shiver works through me, and I realize I don't know how long it's been since I've touched myself, which isridiculous.
My cell dings again. I glance at the lit screen, circling my clit as I read over histext.
Elijah: Are you touchingyourself?
Me: Yes. Areyou?
Elijah: God,yes.
My eyes drift shut, and I pretend it's his fingers inside me. I imagine he's fisting my hair, kissing my throat. Whispering how beautiful I am as he trails his tongue along the curve of my neck. Within seconds, I'm falling over that edge. My muscles grow tense then violently release with my orgasm. My pulse thrums. And while I know my face is still flushed, I grab my phone and hold it out at an angle, exhilarated at the rush when I snap the picture. My cheeks are red. My hard nipples evident through my worn boy-band tank, and my hand is covering just enough to give a peek of my bikiniline.
I send the photo, smiling when I lay my head back on the arm of thecouch.
Seconds later—ding.
Elijah: So sexy, Demi. Showing just enough to leave mehungry.
Elijah: Goodnight,gorgeous.
I exhale.Demi.
I feel awful for not telling him my real name, but there was no easy way to broach that topic. So, you know how you've thought my name was Demi…it's not. I'm juvenile and give out fake names to hot men Iscrew.
Now I just feel it's weird. I'm not good at awkward conversations. Actually, I'm the worst, so I'm just going to pretend this isn't an issue. Besides, it's only four dates—with a man who swears he fucks for a hobby. It's not like I'm going to fall for him over the course of a fewdays.
And there it is, my reason as to why playing with him for a moment is safe, because that whole love-at-first-sight mumbo-jumbo crap is absolutebullshit.
