Seeing the way she ogled him when he came through thedoor—without a shirt on—had my mind going places it had no right to.
Every night this week, my hand would explore my body, whilst my head would fight the image of George doing increasingly filthy things to me. Apart from that one time in the bath, I’d refrained from thinking about him. A difficult thing to do when your brain was a slutty cow who decided that her usual methods of getting off weren't cutting it anymore.
For the past week, I avoided the toys in my bedside table. And I was paying for it. My whole body feltitchy.My skin was tight and my pussy was wound so tight, if I bumped against something the wrong way, she’d explode.
My eyes locked on the pairs of underwear on the bed. As I stared at them, an idea formed in the back of my head.
I was playing with fire. Yet I couldn’t find it in me to care.
I grabbed a pair of black lace underwear, embroidered with tiny sunflowers on it. Tugging off all my clothes, I slipped on the lace and stood in front of my floor-length mirror. My hair fell in waves around my shoulders, lightly tousled from running my fingers through it all day. Only a light layer of foundation and blush stained my cheeks.
Covering my breasts with one arm, I jutted my hip out, lifting my phone and turning on the camera. I took several pictures. That intangible sense of agency thrummed in my veins as I slipped out of that underwear and tugged on another black pair. This one was crotchless and had an intricate pattern of blue swirls all over. These were the ones I wore when I was going out. It provided easy access, and you didn’t have to worry about potentially ruining perfectly good underwear if the guy was too enthusiastic.
Doing the same pose, I snapped a few more and sat down on the end of my bed, scrolling through to find the best one of each. My thumb hovered over the send button.
This was a stupid idea.
My horny brain really needed to stop and think this through. The problem was she didn’t give a shit about anything at the minute.
I was tired.
Tired of pretending this attraction wasn’t there. Tired of forcing myself not to think about him, when he was all I wanted to fixate on.
Giving myself exactly five seconds to rethink, I pressed send on the photos, typing a quick message underneath.
Rosie: Which one do you prefer?
Slumping down on the bed, Roxy curled up in her basket by the door. I brought my legs up to my chest, resting my phone on my knees.
My heart rate pitched when it buzzed with an incoming call. George’s face lit up the screen. I bit back a smile, declining it. We’d been dancing around each other for the past month. I couldn’t get those few times he’d kissed me out of my head. I wanted to play.
My phone vibrated with another incoming call. I rejected it again and sent him a text.
Rosie: Answer the question.
George: Rosie, sweetheart, what are you doing?
Rosie: Flirting. Is that what you do when you’re dating? Consider this one of my lessons.
George: I’ve got an idea for one of your lessons, sweetheart, but you won’t be sitting down for a while after.
The second I read those words, my body lit up like a firework. George, the dutiful son, and brother, had a kinky side.
George: Stop biting your lip.
It popped out of my mouth as I let out a soft grunt of surprise. Logically, I knew he couldn’t see me. He wasn’t lurking in my closet, watching me bite my lip. But the alternative somehow felt worse. He knew my moods, my nervous ticks. Had watched me closely enough that he’d catalogued them. Those pesky warning bells sounded in the back of my head. They clanged loudly, trying to stop me from pressing send on the next message. I ignored their noise, deciding to trust in the very thing that got me into trouble in the first place—my vagina.
Rosie: Answer the question.
Seconds later, his reply came through.
George: Sunflowers.
I picked up the material, feeling the raised bumps of the embroidery under my fingers. These were my favourite pair. That George had picked them over the sexy, almost porn-stareske ones, shouldn’t have made me want to smile. It shouldn’t have me slipping them off to don the sunflowers, letting the material slide over my thighs and wishing that he was here to see it.
None of those stupid, ridiculous emotions should cometo the surface, because it was George.George.My best friend's boyfriend’s brother. I’m not sure why that made any difference at all, but in my head it was the perfect argument why this couldn’t work.
But my heart didn’t seem to care, and right now it was in cahoots with my libido and the two were ganging up on me.
