Dr. Winston Warrick isn’t like that. I feel so damn lucky.
I hate that his new friend, Dr. Elias Carrington, is so damn good-looking. I still feel hot from the encounter I had with him earlier. My face warms at the memory of his foot staying against mine.
A damn shoe!
Good lord, am I so starved for love that I’m getting turned on and flushed by a man who paid attention to me by sliding his damn foot against mine?
I take a long gulp of my wine, needing to reset my emotions for the night.
My phone dings from beside me and when I check it, I’m happy to see Mr. Wrong Number across my screen.
Mr. Wrong Number:I’ve had a really rough day and all I can think about is you making me come. Do you think you can do that for me, sweetheart? Do you think you can make me feel good?
The wineglass nearly falls from my hand. I reread his message three time to make sure I’m reading it correctly, and heat pools between my legs.
Me:I hate that you’ve had a bad day, but I’d love to make it better. What do you want, baby? I’ll make sure you feel so good, you’ll fall asleep wishing I was beside you so you could slide into me. You’d be able to feel how wet I am. How wet you made me.
I lick my lips, wondering if that’s too much, and almost regret sending that message until I see the text bubbles appear on the screen. The wine coats the sudden dryness in my throat as I wait to see what he has to say.
Texting this mystery man sends a jolt of excitement in me. I’m doing something I’m not supposed, and who would have thought that would feel so damn good?
Mr. Wrong Number:Fuuuuck. Talk to me more like that. You have no idea how much I’ve already dreamed about sliding inside you. You have no idea how much I want you in my bed, your orgasm soaking my sheets and your scent lingering on my pillow. I’ve thought about undressing you ever since I saw you in that little dress—or fucking you against the wall while hikingit up your hips. I’d push your panties to the side and drive into you in one long, hard stroke.
I moan into my quiet apartment, my underwear becoming wet with desire. I don’t walk to my room—I dash. Placing the wineglass on the nightstand, I flip the lamp on to cast a faint glow across the room. I slip off the sweatpants I changed into when I got home, then tug my tank top off, my breasts freed since I’m not wearing a bra.
Anyone who wears a bra at home needs to be seen by a doctor. There isn’t a better feeling in the world than taking a bra off after a long day.
I climb into bed, rereading his message. Lifting the phone and angling it in such a way that he can’t see my face, I hit record. I drift my hand down my chest, paying attention to my breasts.
“Look what you do to me,” I moan for him to hear, plucking a hard, beaded nipple between my fingers. I allow my thighs to open, my fingers trailing down the soft skin of my stomach. My clit throbs for attention and I don’t wait to give myself what I need. I dip my fingers below the waistband of my panties, pushing two fingers inside to wet them, then pull them free to show him what he does to me. “You got me so wet. What do you want me to do about it?”
I’ve never felt so bold before.
I tap the side of my phone, my fingers betraying how nervous I am to send this video. I want to. My heart is banging in my chest, wondering why being intimate with this stranger is so easy. If it’s so easy, does that mean it isn’t a good idea?
Probably.
“Fuck it,” I whisper to myself, wanting more naughty videos of him.
I so badly want to ask what his name is. I want to know what his face looks like. I find myself wanting to know him more and more with every passing day.
So, I do what most girls wouldn’t do.
I press send, when I should be on the dating app finding a guy I can actually go on a date with, talk to in person, and who won’t keep me at arm’s length because of the age gap. I enjoy talking to Mr. Wrong Number too much. He becomes easier and easier to talk to. Even if he is just an unrealistic dream, I want to live in the fantasy world for a little bit longer.
Mr. Wrong Number:Fuck. You’re going to be the death of me. You’re so fucking beautiful. You have no idea how badly I wish I was there, kneeling between your legs to taste that wetness myself. I bet I’d be addicted with one swipe of my tongue. I want to feel you wrap your legs around my neck because I’m sucking your clit until your body is buzzing, arching, and you’re gasping, your orgasm coming closer. And then I force your thighs apart, making sure you can’t hide that sweet pussy from me and what I plan to do to you.
Me:And what are those plans?
I bite my lip, slipping my hand down again to relieve the ache, then decide on something better. I reach into my nightstand for a certain toy. It’s small, easy to handle, and has the best suction power.
The text bubbles appear and they stay flashing for far too long. I’m losing my patience. I need to know what he wants to do with me. I can only imagine it’s beyond anything I’ve ever imagined.Sex with my previous boyfriend was okay, but he never made me orgasm. I always had to finish myself, but I have a feeling my mystery man is going to make me come harder than I ever have.
I’m going to become addicted, and eventually we’ll have to go our separate ways because of this age gap he seems to care so much about. As of right now, I’m not going to let it dampen my mood.
While he’s busy typing, I take another video of me slipping off my panties and tossing them to the floor, then sliding the toy up and down through my slick lips to gather some lubrication before I place it directly over my clit.
I turn it on, keeping the pressure low and teasing, enough to have me gasp as the suction ignites my nerves.
