Danger. Adventure. Taboo. The words rippled through Talia. Was that what her daring neckline was actually about? She’d identified with Isadora’s need for more from the first page. She wasn’t looking to put her life in peril. But a little adventure…that excited her.
Emily leaned in. “I think that’s the appeal of sexting. For some people, it feels dangerous putting their desires into words. But there’s a sense of security because a phone provides a barrier.” She tapped her finger on Talia’s screen. “The peanut butter was a joke.” She paused, took a sip of coffee, and thought. “This may be TMI but what the hell.” She slowly spun her cup on the table, looking at it instead of them. “An ex suggested we get a can of whipped cream one night.” She stilled again, blushing at the admission. “It was the best sex I ever had. Only I’m not comfortable admitting my desires aloud like he was. But when I wanted it, I texted it to him.” Again, a smug smile crept over Emily’s face. She shrugged and let her confession marinate.
Talia relaxed against the wooden chair back. Peanut butter jars and whipped cream cans dancing in her mind. Somewhere the idea of Reddi-wip and Peter Pan mixed with something else. Someone else. Her insides warmed at the thought, distracting her from the book discussion that continued without her.
Maxwell, dimly lit room, tongues, spit, sugar, sweat. Oh god.
She fought to get it out of her head, tamping it down the best she could. And down it went. Settling heavily into her belly, sliding down lower until it teased her thighs with a gentle tickle. She shivered against the feel of it. Of him. How it all went unnoticed, she wasn’t sure. Inside, she was melting. Outside, no one had a clue.
Thirty minutes ago, the sexts flying back and forth with a stranger had horrified her. Now, thanks to Emily’s stories and a few ideas of her own, she found herself wishing her number wasn’t the wrong one. And that whoever was on the other end would play along with the urges waking up inside her.
Chapter 12
Maxwell
“Maxwell!”
He was climbing out of his car in the employee lot when she found him. Immediately he knew the voice. His name had rung the rafters in that tone a time or two. Usually behind closed doors. His shoulders tightened and he winced before bothering to turn toward it.
“Tamara.” He dragged out her name as an apology punctuated with a groan when she stopped at his side. “It’s a good thing you didn’t come over last night.”
Once he had caught a glimpse of his mother stealing through the darkness in a ball gown, all thoughts of peanut butter booty calls had ceased. Until Tamara appeared at his side, he hadn’t thought to worry about why she never showed. She was a tease like that.
“Rough night?” she guessed, taking in his ragged appearance. Dressed in an oversized crisp white button-down tied at her tiny waist and hanging off her shoulders, she obviously had had more sleep than he had sitting watch at his mother’s bedroom door.
“Is that mine?” He asked offhandedly, squinting to make out the initials embroidered on Tamara’s breast pocket.
Tamara shrugged. “Maybe.” She, too, read the initials. “Oh no.” She cleared her throat and took a sip from her travel mug. “We were talking about your night.” Talia shifted the topic back to his presumed promiscuity.
“Yeah, I’m sorry.” He apologized again, pulling his lips together and closing his eyes against the thought. “My mother, she isn’t…in a good place. I had hoped you would come over, but then I found her wandering outside and…” Maxwell trailed off. Tamara’s attention was on her phone, scanning messages while she continued through the parking lot.
What did he expect? Tamara was the kind of lover who was out of bed and through the door before the sweat dried. Their physical connection was off the chart. That was it. She didn’t care about his life. Why did he suddenly expect her to?
Instead of rambling, he gathered his briefcase under his arm and followed her onto the stone path that led to the campus quad.
“Early class today, too?” he asked.
“Yes. Eight a.m. classes suck.” Tamara yawned and looked over at him with a smile. “Is that new?” she tipped her chin toward the Spider-Man phone in his blazer pocket. Even half hidden in tweed, the Spidey squat and red boots were easily recognizable.
Maxwell proudly pulled it out to show it off. Certain she would ask Why Spidey? like everyone else.
“Yes. My old phone met an untimely end. And President Harlow requested that I get a second line to use for work.” Maxwell patted the pocket that held his other phone. It wasn’t worth showing off.
Tamara was silent. Distant. Though she’d never stayed over, he knew she wasn’t a morning person.
“I read an interesting article the other day,” she finally said.
“What about?” Maxwell asked, tucking the phone away.
“Um…I don’t remember exactly how it happened.” She paused to think. “But somehow, this guy got a new phone and the number used to belong to this girl’s ex. They were total strangers. Anyway, the girl was lonely…and probably drunk…one night and started texting her ex not knowing that the number had changed. The new guy who has this number thinks it’s funny and starts to play along. You know, thinking he’ll catfish her. Turns out the joke is on him. He finally fesses up that he isn’t her ex. They keep texting and they end up falling for each other. Over text. They meet and three months later, he proposes.”
“That’s love in the digital age. And proof of soulmates. Falling for someone before you lay eyes on them. Wow.” Maxwell had studied love enough to believe in it. He just didn’t need it in his life. He held a PhD in sexual psychology. Scientific facts were hard to ignore. Society believes love is butterflies and rainbows. Monogamous ones. Good for them. They could keep their heads in the sand as long as they liked.
“Do you think you could find your holemate that way?” Tamara asked aloud.
“I…don’t have a clue what that is.”
“Soulmate. Holemate. Perfect fuck buddy,” Tamara explained as if he should know these things.
Tamara was younger and likely got her information from Urban Dictionary. Maxwell preferred legitimate dictionaries. Webster’s and the like. Fluid use of terms like holemate was one of the many things that separated them. Maxwell didn’t need love in his life, but he still approached the act of making love with some regard.
“My professional opinion would be no. You can’t. Fucking is physical. That can’t be accomplished over a text.” Maxwell answered in a low voice. They were nearing the quad and conversations like this were best left off campus.