My hands flex, the desire to grab those hips shooting through me. They look perfect for my hands to grip as I pound into her.
The number isn’t one I recognize, but who cares? It doesn’t matter if I deleted this chick’s number. She’s texting me about missing me and I sure as fuck am down to play with her to take my mind off the shit I’m dealing with.
I take one last hit of the joint before putting it out to finish later. Heat coils in my groin, my dick tenting my sweatpants while I admire the babe in the hot little selfie. Blowing out the smoke, I drop my knees open, grinding my semi against the heel of my palm and mumble, “Shit, girl. Wish you were here with that dime body to take care of what you started in person.”
There’s a birthmark on her thigh, where the material rides up. I tilt my head, tracing my upper lip with my thumb in fascination. It’s shaped like a sun.
Too many urges and scenarios run through my head at once, each better than the last. I could call her up and get her ass here now—I bet it will look amazing bouncing on my cock. But first I want to have some fun with the mystery texter.
As I get up and move to the bed, I dip my hand inside my sweats to pump my cock, dropping my head back and groaning with my eyes hooded. She’s got me raring to go from one selfie, even with my buzz. Weed dick won’t hold me back from enjoying myself with this chick.
I settle on the bed with my legs spread enough to pull the material of my pants tighter, outlining my erection. After clicking on the lamp on the nightstand, flipping up my shirt, and tugging the waistband low enough to show off that I’m trimmed, I rest my hand on my stomach and snap a photo to respond with.
A lopsided smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I fire off my response.
Tonight just got a lot better.
Three
Thea
The air feels as if it’s been sucked from the room. Or maybe that’s the effect of forgetting to breathe while staring at the super sexy photo Wyatt texted in response. My prior worries have flown out the window as I melt into the floral print armchair, eyes locked on the photo like I’m in danger of missing out on his delicious six-pack.
He texted back.
He. Texted. Back.
“Oh my flipping god.” The words come out as a strained whisper.
A muffled squeal ekes out of me as I remember to drag in a huge gasp of air at last, before I pass out like a total basket case. Mark me down on the list of things that faint from overstimulation right below goats and the sweet dog in a viral video I watched from The Dodo who lives with a benign neurological condition.
My mind is the embodiment of the exclamation point on repeat. Several of them. A whole keysmashed parade of exclamation points.
Because Wyatt didn’t just reply with an emoji or say he missed me, too.
Nope. Freaking nope! Containing the grin on the brink of breaking free is next to impossible. I should text Maisy and spill the good news. Maise, your girl just successfully flirted and the world didn’t die of embarrassment!
I drop my phone in my lap and hide my face behind my hands, wriggling as I happy dance in place. The rollercoaster of emotions took me from the pits of anxiety and depression to clean off the track, launched into the sky by my elation that the boy I like responded. I can’t resist scooping the phone back up and viewing the picture full-screen, biting my lip.
He’s reclined on a bed with dark gray sheets, his green t-shirt rucked up to show off his abs and v muscle, his body lean and cut by athleticism. One hand is splayed low on his stomach, toying with his waistband, where I can see the outline of his erection—and his trimmed pubes catching the dim light. I swallow thickly. Wyatt’s face is mostly cropped out by the angle, but I can still appreciate his jaw line and his playful smirk.
It sends an excited flutter through my belly as I picture his thumb stroking back and forth along the edge of his sweatpants before sliding under to squeeze himself.
Is he turned on because of the photo I sent? I can’t know for sure without asking outright, but it’s giving me a hell of a boost to think it’s true.
The picture has me flustered, my cheeks engulfed in warmth while I wrestle against the urge to look away. Wyatt is a hot lifeguard who owned every one of my fantasies at the summer retreat, but this has my mouth watering on an all new level. The energetic damn boy sound clip from TikTok is going off in my head on repeat and it ain’t wrong.
My gaze sweeps over his perfect body. He looks like he should grace the covers of magazines. It’s not quite how I remember him by the lake, but maybe my memories are blinded by his beaming, boyish smile. He could have been hitting the gym a little harder since I last saw him.
Before I can spend more time dwelling on my memory versus the photo, a new text comes in, making me jump when the phone vibrates in my hand.
Wyatt: Still there, baby?
My eyes widen. Baby? A giddy thrill zips down my spine. If I had known it would be this easy to show him how I felt, I would have done this at the beginning of the summer.
“Curse you past Thea.” I scold myself in a hush so Mom doesn’t come snooping on my business. She thinks I’m studying before bed. “See what happens when you bravely squeeze the day!”
Well, seize the day. But I like my poster with bright citrus fruit and the pun version better. It’s more colorful.
I’m still formulating the best way to respond when he sends another text.
Wyatt: Come on, sweetness. Don’t show me yours and then get all shy on me when I return the favor.
Wyatt: You got me all warmed up. Are you going to leave me hanging like this? [Photo attachment]
Heat floods my cheeks again. He’s grinning now, cocky and confident, and has a hand shoved down his pants. It’s blatant and enticingly illicit, sending my heart rate into overdrive. Most of his face is still cropped out to give me a show.
What am I supposed to do now?
He asked a question. So should I respond or do I send another photo? He upped the ante by snapping a pic with his hand on his junk.
I scan myself, debating the most attractive way to match him. Rompers aren’t exactly designed for easy access. I could go up the pant leg, I guess, or maybe dropping the straps off my shoulders, but then does it look like I’m too naked? I mean, yes, I would be tits out and everything, though I guess that’s kind of the point. It’s not like I have anything on under this.
The logistics twist my brain in circles for a few minutes.
I only planned as far as taking and sending the selfie. There was no strategy for what to do next if he answered.
My attention drifts back out the window where Connor Bishop’s bedroom light is dimmer, but still on at the house next door. I bet he does this sort of thing all the time with the amount of girls always falling over themselves to flirt with him. An image of him pops into my head from the first day of school, where a pretty girl from the dance squad sat on his lap all through lunch, blushing every time he whispered in her ear. Yeah, with those full lips tilted in a smug curve? He’s totally a pro at this stuff.
Maybe I should take a page from him to figure out how to be sexy while texting Wyatt.
A breathy laugh huffs from my lips while I drop my head back against the armchair. “Yeah right.”