Until I swipe again. I gasp. Actuallygaspout loud, a hand flying to my mouth.
Steam fills most the image, but in the mirror, a man stands. A naked man. A beautiful, ripped, Adonis of a man. It's a mirror selfie, steam wiped from the foggy mirror in a strip wide enough to capture his perfection.
Dark hair, wet from a shower, frames his handsome face. Wide, muscled shoulders and defined chest tapers down to a slender waist. And abs. A mountain range of abs. A dark trail of hair leading from his navel disappears from the shot. Oh shit.He's naked!Nothing makes it into the image but just knowing it makes me flush.
One muscled arm is bent to hold the phone, a smirk at his full lips, perfect white teeth sinking into the bottom one. Makes me want to bite it. Besides a defined jaw and a straight nose, his face is hidden a little behind the phone. But, I've seen enough.
“You're a creeper, Ella Foster. Fucking creeper.” I lock the phone and toss it aside as if the image burnt me.
Truthfully, it kind of did. Between my legs, at least. It's been months--no almost a year--since a man touched me. Since I wanted a man to touch me. I get by with a little help from my DJ skills, but it’s not the same. Nothing like the weight of a man, the press of him on top of you, inside you, behind you. And now I'm horny.
Flicking from Outlander to Vikings, knowing the latter will not help my situation, I ignore it. Ignore the throbbing growing between my legs. Until a flash of that photo comes to life in my head. Except, unlike the photo, selfie-guy is not alone. Oh no. I'm there, too.
Stepping out of the shower after him. Wet. Naked. Ready. I move behind him, just visible above his broad shoulder. His smile widens. He reaches behind him, pressing my naked skin to his. A groan rumbles through him. Tugging me to his side, he takes another photo. Of him holding me, arm banded over my breasts, head dropped to my shoulder. My head lies back against his opposite shoulder as we post naked for the shot.
Here and now, I hike up the long jersey hem, skimming my hand between my thighs. Of course. Wet. Tipping my head back as I stretch out on the couch, letting my legs spread wider, I reach for the phone again. Tapping in the code with fast fingers, I get to the photo in a few seconds.
I imagine him dropping his hand down between my legs.Oh yes. Just there. Flicking the camera to video as he films it. Captures the sounds I make as he slides thick, skilled fingers between my legs. Coating them in the stickiness he finds. Shoving inside without hesitation. I cry out, arching into his touch as he steadies me with a strong arm.
Watching me in the mirror and the camera on his phone, he strokes me, teases me, drives me right to the edge. I am so close. I feel it building. Feel it crashing against my walls, wide and deep. And then, just when I am ready to come, he drops his hand, hooking my leg up onto the vanity. Still filming, he plunges inside me from behind.
“Oh fuck.” I cry out for real, imagining how hot it would be as he filmed us fucking in the mirror, making me come so easy it should be embarrassing.
And it kind of is, I decide as I come back down from myactualorgasm, my fingers still rubbing it out against my sensitive clit. Bilbo watches me from his perch on the table, shaming me. I laugh out loud, throwing the last bite of my hotdog at him to shut him up.
“Fuck you, Bilbo. Mother has needs.” I laugh again, locking the phone once more, a little shamed I used a stranger’s selfie to get off to.
Oh well.
It's not like he might ever know, whoever he is. Not like I might answer the phone if he calls looking for it,“Yeah, found it in the park, Good Sir. Tossed one off to that little mirror selfie of yours. Thank you kindly.”I laugh again, turning back to my show.
It's times like this, I realize why I am single.
Levity is broken as I scold myself. Not true. I am single because men are disappointments waiting to show you how shitty life can be. At least, in my personal experience.
My father spent most my life reminding me I was an unwanted mistake. A trucker who drove across country, he bedded the wrong waitress at the wrong time and got her pregnant. Never even bothered to put a ring on it. After he blew out, my mother kind of did too. Only, she stuck around, she was just never reallythereanymore.
Might have left me with abandonment issues. Made me a bit clingy. Maybe.
Heseemed to think so. Thought I wanted too much time, too much attention. Thought it was crazy that when I caught him texting other women--things he never said to me--I got upset over it. Said being jealous was juvenile. We had a solid thing going, he would always say.
Solid. Not important or exciting or special. Solid.
Not solid enough because the texting became photos that became phone calls that became long weekends away. I am no idiot. I might have pretended to be one for a lot longer than I am proud of. I knew. Of course, I knew.
I moved to New York because ofhim. Because he got a good marketing job at some firm, he'd had a hard-on for since we were in college. Yeah, college sweethearts. How pathetic. I came with him without a plan for myself, other than to be his partner in life. What a fucking joke.
We got a nice place in a part of town I was certain we couldn't afford. At first, things were good. He liked his job, liked coming home to me making the place into a home. Doing my best, at least. Not like I had experience at what a home was really like. And, I think that's why he chose me.
Because I had nothing, no way to compare what was good or bad. As far as he was concerned, climbing atop me and rutting for a few minutes a couple times a month or dinner out when he felt like being generous were good enough. Shouldn't matter to me—some charity case he thought he could turn into a docile housewife—what he did with the rest of his time. Or who he did, rather.
Moving to New York had been for him.Livingin New York became about me. Learning my way around the massive city had done more than taught me to become self-sufficient. It had broadened my horizons to the opportunities waiting out there. It was exciting to try new things, eat new foods, meet new people.
Once I took chances, got out there in the city, I realized how little I had expected from him. How little I got. When I realized our place was subsidized by the wife of his boss—because he was her side bitch as it were—I decided I was done accepting bare minimum from a man who couldn't even make me come.
“I came for you, but I nevercomefor you. Life might not be just about pleasure but it certainly ain't just about pain either.”I am still proud of the snarky parting comments I left him with as I moved out almost ten months ago.
Fast forward through getting a new place of my own, a job I loved and making a few friends, I was in a much better place. A good place. And hell, I was even coming these days.
