“Show me,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a register that makes my entire body vibrate. “Show me how you touch yourself when you’re alone and thinking about me.”
My knees go weak, and I slide down the wall and onto the floor. I no longer care if my hair gets wet. I don’t care aboutanythingright now. I know my walls are as thin as a sheet of paper. Martha, my next-door neighbor, has already complained about how loud my microwave beeps. I shouldn’t moan, but I can’t help myself.
I pull my knees up to spread my legs wider. One hand braces the tile while the other works between my thighs. It’s not enough. Nothing is ever enough when he invades my thoughts.
I need more.
I needhim.
Part of me wants to run back to the bedroom, dripping water and God knows probably more, to grab my vibrator from my drawer. But I can’t bear tostop.
My fingers dip down further, catching on my entrance, and I slip two in, a strangled moan slipping past my lips. I can’t breathe, not with the steam and the ghost of him and theneed.
I imagine his hands replace mine, one resting against the side of my neck and the other between my thighs. Visualizing him kneeling in front of me sends me into fucking orbit, and my toes curl against the wet tile floor.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks. “Is this what you spend your time thinking about when you’re supposed to be working?”
“Yes,” I whimper, my thighs clenching as it’s starting to build. My head tips back against the wall. “God,yes.”
“Such a naughty girl,” he murmurs, and a jolt oftoo muchgoes through me. “Touching yourself in the shower while thinking about me.”
I thrust my fingers faster, harder,rougherinto myself, the base of my thumb working wonders against my clit. And God, I just want it to be him, I just want it to be him, I just wanthim?—
“Look at me,” he commands. His voice is rough and soft all at once, and I imagine doing just that. I imagine meeting his gaze with half-lidded, pleasure-drunk eyes and a need behind them so intense it makes his breath stutter. “I want to watch you come. I want to see how that pretty face twists when you fall apart because of me.”
That’s all it takes.
The pressure inside me snaps, waves of ecstasy crashing through me as my orgasm hits. I cry out loudly as my body trembles with each wave of pleasure that washes over me. I’m left boneless and breathless on the shower floor. For a moment, I just sit there, catching my breath with the water cascading over me.
Then reality comes rushing back. He’s not here. I’m alone in the tiny bathroom of my apartment that smells like mildew. Plus, there is a good chance there will be a mortifying complaint from Martha next door.
I just let myself go further than I normally do when it comes to my fantasies of Anthony Voss.
As I step out and wrap myself in a towel, the fog on the mirror has cleared just enough to get a blurry image of myself. I see it—my flushed cheeks, my lower lip slightly swollen from my teeth biting down on it, the slightly dazed look in my eyes. For a brief second, I imagine what it would feel like if he knew.
I walk to my bedroom with my head in shambles. My once too hot tea is now too cold.
I reach for my phone, expecting a string of messages from Nicky freaking out over my rambling confessions. Instead, I see another notification from Anthony, time-stamped ten minutes ago. Face ID registers, and the message displays on my screen:
Anthony Voss:
I see you’ve strayed into creative writing territory. Should I be flattered or concerned?
I stare at the notification in utter confusion before terror strikes.
No. No, no, no, no, I couldn’t have!
I flick away my lock screen and scramble to open the text thread, my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to eject itself from my chest without a parachute.
There it is.
The entire monologue.
Everything.
Everything I wrote in my long stream of horny consciousness.
Sent not to Nicky, but toAnthony fucking Voss.
