Everywhere. I can’t stop it. The space around my phone gets absolutely baptized in it.
A few drops splatter right onto the screen.
Onto him. His chest disappears under it, and now I feel like I just committed a sin I can’t undo.
I keep stroking. Dragging every last drop out of myself. My cheeks are on fire. My ears are ringing.
It’s that kind of orgasm where everything goes white, like the world folds in on itself, like I just somersaulted through five different universes and landed back in my body too hard. I plant my hands on my hips and glare at the mess on the table.
How would he feel if I just sent him a picture of my cum all over the place as a response? No messages, just the photo.
Since you’re out here sending bare skin at 3 in the goddamn morning, take this. Take it back.
I can speak your language too, baby. Fluently.
I swipe the screen, checking if he sent anything else. Nothing. He deleted the photo, but didn’t say shit. Not even a fake excuse. Not even a nervous “oops.”
I see. I’m supposed to break it. God, I knew it.
Should’ve just sent it. One picture. Just cum.
Louder than any “what was that?”
Louder than any “I saw everything.”
That would’ve shut him up real quick. But nah. If I do that, he’ll probably start crying. Call it harassment. Report me. As if he’s not the reason my soul left my body tonight.
18) Fighting or Flirting?
Rava
I am trying to focus. I really am. The guy up front is rambling about brand direction or sustainable markets or whatever new corporate buzzword they’ve slapped on the PowerPoint to make us feel like this meeting isn’t slowly killing us.
Killing ME.
I have my notebook open, pen in hand, my face arranged in that perfect neutral I’ve been mastering since elementary school.
Gio kicks me under the table.
Great. Exactly what I need. I can’t even look at him after last night. After that half-naked photo that basically looked like an invitation to my room at 3 fucking AM.
I don’t know what’s worse.
That he saw it, that he commented on it, or that my heart went suicidal the second his notification popped up.
I glance sideways at him. He doesn’t look at me. Just leans back in his chair like he hasn’t done anything. I narrow my eyes.
A minute passes. I try to get back to my notes.
Then a crumpled piece of paper lands in my lap. I look down. It’s the corner of one of the conference handouts. Folded and thrown like we’re in high school. I open it.
"nice shirt. shame you looked better without it." in Gio’s messy, slanted handwriting.
I snap it shut fast. He laughs. Nope. Absolutely not. No one can see that. If anyone around us reads even one word of it, they’ll think that we did… stuff. Together.
Yeah. Not happening.
I write one word at the bottom of the page, fold it again, and flick it back across the table while no one is looking.
