Was that real? A mistake? Some kind of twisted test? I can’t tell. I should respond. Say something. But I don’t trust myself right now.
Instead, I lock the screen, turn off the lamp, and lie here—awake. Wanting and confused.
Jesus Christ. What the fuck just happened?
It’s all too much, too fast. And holy hell, if this is what he sounds like when he’s getting off alone, I’m in trouble.
6
Brent
Two days.That’s how long it’s been since I kissed Camden Crawford against a brick wall like I had a goddamn death wish.
Two days since he kissed me back like he wanted to taste what made me tick.
Two days since we sat in the shop afterwards, pretending we weren’t both completely wrecked—me sketching like I hadn’t just kissed a man who could knock me flat with a single shoulder feint, and him watching me like I hadn’t just blown through half his boundaries without a second thought.
And also—minor detail—two days since I accidentally sent him a voice message of me jacking off to the memory of said kiss.
Yeah. Fucking stellar move.
Here’s how that went, in case you’re imagining something sexy and cinematic: I got home, still buzzing. Should’ve had a cold shower. Should’ve done anything else. Instead, I got hard the second I walked through my flat door. All it took was remembering the sound he made when I pressed him to the wall. That soft, surprised inhale. That little grunt when I tugged his bottom lip.
So, naturally, I dropped onto my bed and reached for my phone. Innocent enough, right? Scroll through our messagethread, get my rocks off like a normal, desperate idiot. What I didn’t account for: I cannot, under any circumstance, multitask.
At some point during the proceedings—probably when I muttered his name like a depraved voicemail from hell—I must’ve hit Record.
Did I notice?
No. Because I was two seconds from coming and thought the slight vibration from my phone was some phantom pleasure wave from the gods.
It was not.
It was Messenger asking if I’d like to send my two-minute-and-twelve-second sexcapade to Camden Crawford. And with my fingers slicked in lube and my brain short-circuited, I didn’t hit Delete. I hit Send.
Because clearly, I should never be allowed near technology during orgasm.
I think I made a choked, panicked dolphin noise. Then I fumbled to Unsend it like the coward I am, only to realise he’d already opened it.
What followed were a series of world-class humiliations:
Me: Please delete that.
Me: I meant to send it to… the void. Not you.
Me: Oh God. Camden. I’m so sorry.
Me: That wasn’t for you. Obviously.
Me: Can we pretend I’ve never touched my dick?
Okay, those may not be the exact things I texted, but I can’t look at them to remind myself. The whole thing is just too humiliating.
Needless to say, he did not respond.
For two full days, I sent a few more half-hearted apologies, even considered mailing him a bouquet of “I have no impulse control” flowers. Eventually, I stopped texting entirely. I’m nowoperating under the “ignore it until death claims you” school of coping.
Which brings me to now—sitting in the studio, two days deep into mortification, sketchpad in front of me, phone on silent like it might explode if I so much as breathe near it.
