I raise an eyebrow. “This is going to be riveting,” I mutter, but I keep reading.
And the shocking thing? It is riveting.
Bold. Unapologetic. Honest in a way that makes something stir low in my stomach. It’s all about women reclaiming their own desires on their own terms. Not waiting around for love or permission or the right person. Just doing what feels good, what feels right, and making a damn list if that’s what it takes.
By the time I reach the end, I’m chewing on my bottom lip, my phone still glowing in my hand.
A fuck-it list.
I’ve never even thought about making one. My life’s been built around rules and waiting for the right moment, the right guy, the right everything. But what if I stopped waiting? What would my list look like?
I grab a pen and notepad from my bag and stare at the blank space for a long beat. Then I write across the top.
Phern’s Fuck-It List.
And slowly, with a wicked grin tugging at the corner of my mouth, I start to write.
Even though I’ve got about zero hands-on experience, I know what turns me on when I read. The slow-burn tension. The hands-gripping-hips urgency. The whispered filth that makes your pulse stutter.
So I write those things down.
Then I start writing things that remind me of Will. The way his voice drops when he’s pissed. The way he looked at me tonight, like I was already undressed in his head. The feel of his thigh pressed between mine, his breath hot against my neck.
By the time I hit number seven on my list, I’m squirming.
That’s when I grab my laptop and open an incognito window. At first, I just browse a porn site. Nothing too scandalous. But then I start typing: Brother’s best friend. Cowboys.
Holy hell.
Some of that stuff is very specific. And not in a bad way.
I click on a video with a ridiculous title. Something about a cowboy and his “little miss”. And sure, it’s cheesy as hell. But the moment the guy shows up in boots and a Stetson, voice all gravel and drawl, something low in my stomach clenches.
It’s the rope in his hands. The command in his voice. The look in his eyes like he owns the room and her. The room goes quiet except for the sound of my own shallow breathing and the soft moans coming from my laptop.
And that’s when I glance out the window.
Will’s apartment is across the way, just beyond the alley. His blinds are open, and he’s sitting on the couch. Shirt off, beer in hand, like some kind of small-town sin. He looks relaxed. Unbothered. Like he didn’t press me against a wall tonight and nearly wreck my entire ability to think straight.
As the symphony of groans and breathy gasps plays on, I don’t even realize my hand’s moving until it is. Slowly hiking up the hem of my lace skirt, breath catching in my throat.
I watch Will.
And I wonder what it would feel like if he were the one watching me. Touching me…
Will’s leaned back on the couch, one arm slung over the back, beer bottle dangling loosely in his hand. His attention’s on the TV—or at least, it was—until he shifts. His head turns. Slowly. And then?
He looks up.
Right at me.
My breath catches. Not because I flinch or duck out of sight. But because I don’t. I want him to see me.
The laptop is still glowing on my coffee table, casting flickering light across my thighs. The cowboy in the video is murmuring something filthy, and the woman’s answering moan scrapes against my nerves in all the right ways.
My skirt is bunched around my hips now. My hand slides beneath it, fingertips grazing lace and heat and need.
I don’t look away from Will.
