He groans softly.
“With little black bows.”
“Will you put them on again?”
“Now? Or tomorrow?”
“Both.”
I lift myself off the bed and eyeball the stack of laundry in the corner. My body is flushed, my hormones buzzing, and that thong is right on top. “I have something else for tomorrow. Something better.”
“Impossible.”
“I’m changing into my red lace thong now.”
His breath comes through the phone, ragged and desperate.
“What areyouwearing?” I ask.
“A cotton T-shirt, socks, and a pair of boxer-briefs.”
“Is that how you always walk around your house?”
“No. My trousers are highly uncomfortable when I’m this aroused.”
“Where are you?”
“My bedroom.”
“What does it look like?”
“Emptiness and loneliness and bleakness.”
I’ve shimmied out of my shorts and plain pink cotton panties, and now I’m dancing into the thong. “You could hire a designer to fix that.”
“Having you here would fix that.”
“What would your room look like if I were there?”
“It would look like a naked Bea splayed across my rumpled white sheets, which is my very definition of heaven. Have you changed your knickers?”
I finagle myself out of my tank top without dropping the phone. “Yes. I’m in my red lace thong.”
“Are you still wearing anything else?”
“A completely not-matching beige cotton bra.”
“Take it off.”
“One strap at a time, or do you want me to reach behind my back and unclasp it so it falls off?”
“Bea…” His voice is getting hoarse.
“Yes?”
“I’m picturing your breasts and gripping my cock.”
I want to see Simon’s cock. I’ve felt it, but I haven’tseenit. “Just gripping? Not stroking?”
