I click on another video and this time, he’s fucking his fist faster, harder, whispering things like,“I wish I could fill that tight cunt of yours. You’d take it too. You’d take every drop because you’d beg for it, wouldn’t you?”
My memories from last night crashing in on me, I now remember very vividly all of the words he and I exchanged.
It was hot.
He was hot. Those tattoo sleeves on his arms? No one should be allowed to look that good with that pretty of a cock.
And I don’t care that I have no idea what he looks like. I think this is exactly what I need. He’s fun, and not knowing what he looks like gives me a chance to get to know the real him. Nothing will happen between us. What are the chances? He might not even live in the city.
A small pang hurts my chest at that thought. It would suck if we decided we ever wanted to meet. I put my phone down, needing a breather. How could this have happened? This could have been a conversation with my ex if I really think about it.
The thought alone makes my stomach turn. It’s a good thing I texted the wrong number. The universe has my back in some weird way.
Another message pops up from Mr. Wrong Number, so I finally hit the down arrow to see what he has to say.
Mr. Wrong Number:How are you feeling this morning?
Mr. Wrong Number:Uh, I understand if you don’t want to talk to me anymore. I know last night was wild. I had never done anything like that before. I know, shocking given my old age, but talking to you has been the best part of my week. Anyway, I wanted to say that you have nothing to worry about. I wouldn’t ever share these messages with anyone or post them anywhere. I’m not that kind of man. I’m going to delete them. I wouldn’t ever want you to worry about that. This message is so long, but anyway, I hope you’re feeling better. Happy birthday, Miss Wrong Number. Take care of yourself.
I stare at his message, feeling slightly panicked that he no longer wants to talk. I know I haven’t messaged him back yet, butI’m trying to figure out what to say. I was so outside of myself yesterday and to wake up remembering that I sexted a stranger is a lot to wrap my head around.
I don’t regret it, though. I don’t regret him.
Mr. Wrong Number:God, I’m a fucking creep, aren’t I? I’m 43 years old and you’re 26. I had no business texting you those things, those words, those videos.
The one of him coming all over his stomach is my favorite.
My phone vibrates again.
Mr. Wrong Number:Okay, I promise, I’m done blowing up your phone. I’m so sorry.
I finally blink away the confusion and embarrassment and text him back.
Me:Don’t apologize. We did nothing wrong. We’re two grown adults. I don’t mind the age difference, but you do. If anyone is the guilty party here, it’s me. I’m the one who started it, but I’m not sorry it happened. I liked it. I like talking to you.
Mr. Wrong Number:I don’t regret it either, but a 17-year age gap? I could be your father, technically.
Me:But you’re not.
Mr. Wrong Number:But I could be.
Me:No, you really couldn’t. If you want to delete my number, I’ll delete yours and we can move on with our lives, but I really hope that doesn’t happen. I had a great time last night.
A knock at the front door interrupts me even though my stomach is in knots. I want to clear this up with my new…friend?Stranger? Acquaintance? Friends with benefits? We don’t know each other enough for any kind of label.
I shake my head when the room spins and at the same time my stomach grumbles. Peeping through the hole in the door, I see my mom, and suddenly, my stomach eases.
I could talk to her about this if I wanted to. My mom is my best friend. She’s the least judgmental person I know. A part of me wants to keep Mr. Wrong Number to myself, though. He’s too new and too hard to explain.
And a little bit of an accident. And now that I think of it, I’m not sure if my mom would be cool about it or go into mother mode.
Swinging the door open, I can barely muster the energy to smile.
“Good lord, Liv. You look like roadkill.”
“It’s so good to see you too, Mom. I’m doing well. Thank you for asking.”
“I don’t need to ask to know. You look terrible. Fun night?” She pushes herself into the apartment, noticing the string of shoes scattered across the living room floor like breadcrumbs. “The girls are here too?”
