“Perfect,” I mutter when I’m in position. Grasping the hem of my sweatshirt, I throw it over my head, watching as it falls behind my bedside table. I’m thinking of stopping there, but I want this to be seared into his retina.
I want to be the first person he sees when he opens his eyes, the last before going to sleep. I want my body to be the one he envisions as he fucks his wife. His only fantasy, at least until he makes it a reality.
My pants hit the table next, leaving me on hands and knees, dressed in nothing but my lace, lilac bra, and matching thong.
Setting the timer on my camera, I keep everything above my nostrils hidden while I arch for the countdown. Every single one of my hickeys is on display for him, but my favorite is the one disappearing into my bra, directly above my nipple.
I lean in closer to the camera, sliding one hand in between my parted thighs while using the other to drag my left cup down. My palm covers the majority of my breast, but I give him a tiny peek at my pebbled nipple.
I take about ten of those before spinning around on my knees. Then, stretching backward, I slam my finger on the button, waiting for the countdown to reach one before sensually burying my fists in my curling hair. Pressing my pelvis against the mattress, I tilt forward so my ass curves in just the right way.
After a few more poses and two dozen photos taken, I hastily throw my clothes back on, sort through the best, and delete the worst.
I’m stuck between three different positions; two tits and one ass.
I don’t know what kind of man Theodore is, so I send them all. Let him struggle with deciding which one is the best. Either way, it’s going to be me he sees in his dreams.
I leave my room with a different type of exhilaration running through my veins. I’ve never done something so wild before, not for any guy my age, and certainly not for a man as old as Mr. Ellis. The act has me feeling like I’m on top of the world, until my nerves decide to make themselves known.
The doubt that flares in my stomach is unexpected and unappreciated. I’m not used to insecurities. I’ve worked my whole life on barging through them. They do nothing but create a hole that is almost impossible to crawl out of. But as I wait for his response, an unshakable gush of self-consciousness folds me in half.
“You okay, honey?” Mom asks, coming to the foot of the stairs as I make my way down. Her hand instinctively goes to the front of my forehead. “You feel a little warm. Maybe you’re coming down with a fever.”
No, Mom. I just sent my teacher nudes, and now I’m horrified that all he’s going to see when he opens them is a teenage girl trying too hard.
“Yeah… I’m going to go lie down. Thanks for dinner, Mommy. Goodnight,” I say, pulling her in for a hug. “Goodnight, Daddy.”
“Goodnight!” he calls out, resting on the ground with his arms thrown over his heavy-lidded eyes.
With a tight smile, I return to my room. After throwing my phone on the bed, I go into the bathroom for one last wash of my face and brush of my teeth.
The self-doubt churning in my gut makes vomit crawl up my throat. I fight the urge to expel all contents of my stomach as I drink water straight from the sink. The cool liquid helps, but there’s still a slight smarting in my abdomen that leaves me shaking and disquieted.
“Ugh,” I growl in a hushed tone, pushing away from the wet countertop. I pace the length of my bathroom, eyes on the bed and my phone that sits on top of my messy duvet.
The voice in my gut screams at me, demanding I wait by the phone for his message. But I’m stronger than that, better than the desperation crawling out of my skin. As soon as I remind myself of that, the apprehension bleeds away, falling back into its unwanted depths.
Feeling like myself again, I shut off the lights in the bathroom and stroll to the bed. I fight the instinct to go straight to my phone. Instead, I click on the television mounted to my wall, scrolling through all my subscriptions until I land on Investigation Discovery'sWives with Knives.
Nothing calms me down quite like watching women finally lose their shit, especially when their husbands deserve it.
With the intro playing in the background, I snap on the lights wrapped around my headboard and pick up my sketchbook.
“Paint or pens. Paint or pens,” I debate, staring between the two in my open drawer.
Too comfortable to leave the warmth of my sheets, I decide on pens. The art won’t look as smooth, but it gives me something to do.
Since I’m not using paint, I work on sketching out the most challenging parts of my art final. Marie looked at me like I was crazy for doing a mock-up, but unlike her, my pieces don’t come together as I go along. I have to plan out every step, or else I’ll never get it done.
Somewhere in the middle of my rough outline, and with Dr. Casey Jordan’s voice as my background, vibrations cut through the thick material of my duvet.
Concentration severed, I stare ahead, seeing nothing, hearing nothing but the crashing beats of my heart.
“It may not even be him,” I mumble, fighting to get my pulse under control. Steadily, I set my pen in the spirals of my notebook and fold my hands over my lap.
“Don’t open it. Don’t touch it. Fuck, Scarlett… don’t even look at it.” I refuse to be the girl who responds a second after it’s received.
I count to a thousand, wringing my hands tighter with each hundred I pass. By the time I reach the end, my fingertips are a dangerous shade of purple. After release, they throb brutally as I let oxygen penetrate the muscles, but at least that pain soothes the drumming in my chest.
