Spitfire – Let me see what you look like.
An image attachment pops up, and for a split second, I debate on clicking on it, but the thought is fleeting. I click it, and the picture that takes up my screen has my knees squeezing together and my mouth wanting to fall open.
He’s shirtless. Perfectly chiseled abs stare at me, glistening with sweat and the tiniest bit of hair peppering over them. One hand holds the phone, blocking his face, as the other dangles to his side. Thick veins run down them, stopping and disappearing above his knuckles. His skin is sun-kissed and tan, giving his muscles even more definition. His dark, dirty-blond hair is clipped short on the sides, with the top growing out a bit longer but still neat. I want to run my fingers through it. Pull it while he feasts between my thighs.
I push the dirty thoughts away because if I let them take over, I’d sign my life over to this man just to see how he fucks. And on top of that, with William this close, it’s just… awkward. I try to type out a reply that doesn’t make me sound too thirsty, but he replies before I can.
Stallion – I’ll pay you.
For a moment, I’m offended. Does he think I’m a whore? That I fuck for money?
Spitfire – I’m not some fucking prostitute.
I should throw my phone down and ignore anything else he says, but I can’t. For some reason I want him to correct it. To make it better and say it was a joke or something.
Stallion – Never said you were. I just… like things a little differently.
Now. Now, Carmen, I tell myself. This is the time to back out. He’s probably some sort of serial killer or into hard-core anal.
I know I should listen to the voice inside of my head because I’ve always been careful, but my fingers start to fly across the screen on their own. Fuck being careful. Fuck caring.
Spitfire – Maybe I like things differently too. Let me see yours, and I’ll show you mine.
I don’t know if I’m serious or not as I hit Send, but when he replies with an address, I realize I’m as serious as a heart attack. If this random man is willing to give me what Bradley did, then I’m down.
I need this. The recklessness, the escape.
“Dinner will have to wait, William. Lydia needs me,” I say, sliding off the barstool.
He turns around, spatula in hand and a wounded look on his face. “Oh. Tell her I said hello.” I can tell he’s trying to hide his hurt.
I smile. “I will. And tomorrow, I promise we’ll do something just us.”
That earns me a smile of his own. “Perfect.”
I give him a nod before exiting the kitchen and heading toward the door.
