Earphones in, I loaded up Instagram again, only to seeanother fifteen notifications from him.
“Did you see my other story, Livid?”
I was trying not to click on it now.
“Yes,” I said, voice stern. “That shouldn’t have been posted either.”
“I wanted to get your attention. How many times did you watch?”
Attention for me to admire? Or tell off? “Once.”
He snorted, seeing right through my lie. “It got 4 million views — I’m betting a few hundred thousand were you?”
“Was it your breathing?”
The humour behind his snort became a full chuckle. “Maybe. Want to hear it in real life?”
I skipped past his latest post, not wanting to see his hand in hers and started to scroll. The picture of him a few days ago with champagne in his hair made me think back to him in the shower and how he had groaned. Only hours later, he had admitted it was because he had been thinking of me.
I tapped it twice, the little illustrated heart turning red.
It was just silly flirting. Harmless.
It was the alcohol. We were both drunk.
“Like what you see, Livid?”
Yes. I’d hated him calling me Livid before. It had heated my skin and forced my breathing to harshen in anger.
But my breath was already harsh and I loved him calling me Livid.
My inner thigh was so sensitive, my fingertips grazing closer to where I needed to be touched—where I neededhistouch.
“Mmm,” I moaned. “What a waste of champagne.”
If I just touched my thigh and not myself, then that wasokay. That was just fine.
“Next time, we shouldn’t waste a drop. How about you lick it off?”
“Lick—lick it off?” I stammered, my touch halting.
He grunted, and the sound ran deep within me, encouraging my fingers to climb again. “Yeah. With your tongue. Lick the champagne off my neck. Off my skin. You can lick wherever. Wouldn’t wantanythingto go to waste.”
Oh my god. My clit was pulsing, begging for touch as I imagined myself kissing his neck, getting on my knees and licking somewhere else, somewhere sensitive—
I touched myself through my knickers, not holding back a relieved sigh.
“What are you doing, Livid?” he asked, amused, but by his own breathy question, I knew exactly what he was up to.
“Imagining the taste of your champagne.”
“Do you think you’ll ever do more than imagine?” he asked.
When he finished speaking, all I could imagine was that grunt he had made in the shower. In my ear. Against my throat. Against where I touched myself.
“Say yes,” he begged. “Please say yes.”
The alcohol, his voice so deep in my ear with the headphones, the analogies, the tension in my bones all forced my mouth to say, “I hope so.”
