Oh my God! Dirt in a cup! I haven’t had one of those since I was, like, ten.
You calling me immature?
Him sending the winking face emoji perks my nervous system right up. I guess it’s what some type of neurological professional would call a dopamine hit. Whatever it is, I love it.
Of course not, I write back.Clearly your tastes are refined af. Dirt in a cup is delicious.
It’s gone now. I basically inhaled it.
I swallow as an idea comes to me.
What if I…seduced this man?
Seriously. What have I got to lose?
I don’t mean that the end result of this experiment I’m considering is that we’d meet up and fuck. I’m very much done with those kinds of adventures, thanks to stupid Grayson Baker. But sexting is still a thing, right? Not a thing I really tried before. Talking “sexy” with Grayson meant reading about his preferences and turn-ons in a long list, and him literally never asking to know mine in return. So…why not “try something new” with @tryingsomethingnew?
The worst that could happen is he wouldn’t want to chat anymore.
And the thing is? As soon as he finds out who I really am, that’s going to happen anyway. Learning he’s from Cranberry—that’s a given. It kind of makes me sad to admit it to myself, since I like him so much, but there’s no way he would ever want me once he learns my name.
I take a deep breath. The dopamine and whatever other feel-good hormones are rushing through me now as I jump to my dresser and change into the most casually skimpy outfit I can find.
He’s written me:So what are you up to now? Besides being jealous of my awesome dessert?
I lie in bed and respond withI am taking selfies. Want to see one?
Sure.
Is it okay if it’s NSFW?
There’s a bit of a pause, but then he writes again:Sure.
Oh gods, why do I always promise selfies before I’ve even taken them?Learn, Sky, learn, I scold myself, and then I snap a short series of myself as I lie back on the bed, my honey-brown hair fanned around me in beach waves, my eyes looking as dark as midnight in the low light. I’m wearing a sheer, even tight, little white tank top without a bra.
I blur my face with the photo editing app and send the first photo. It shows me pulling down my top just a little bit, so that a good amount of cleavage is on display.
You’re gorgeous, he writes back.
I can’t help my grin. I’m just not used to this kind of romantic attention, considering most of the eligible bachelors in town would rather run away from me than shower me with compliments. Or even one single compliment.
Your turn, I type.
I laugh when his photo loads. It’s him, lying in bed, the empty pudding cup balanced between his pectoral muscles. Another picture comes quickly—he’s lifted his shirt some in this one, revealing the line of his happy trail and one of the cuts of the V at his hips.
I send another photo in response; this time, a peek of my areola is exposed through another lowering of my top. He sends one of his shirt rolled up almost all the way to his collarbone. It’s like we’re playing some kind of virtual striptease. It’s tame, as far as sexy games go, but I find it thrilling. Intoxicating, even.
For my final photo, my top is all the way off, showing both breasts, tight brown nipples and all.
Jesus Christ. Look at you.is the first thing he types back. After a few seconds, more words appear.damn you look so damn good, and I guess he means it, because he doesn’t even include the proper punctuation he usually does.
I swallow and then do my next super brave thing of the night.Can I see you? Face covered, I mean?
His next photo is of him, in almost the same position as me, except one of his hands is back under his head. His whole head is scribbled over in navy blue, but I can tell I like the way he looks by the hint of his chin. His shirt is completely off now, like me. I take note of how strong his shoulders look. He has chestnut brown chest hair, and in the dim lighting, I think I can see some freckles.
You’re beautiful, I write immediately.
I’m blushingis his response.
