Me:Oh, you’re not even old.
Mr. Wrong Number:Tell that to my head full of gray hair.
I’ve never told anyone, but I’ve always had a thing for older men who have silver hair. Mature men are so much better than men my age. I like when a man knows what he wants and goes after it. Men my age play too many games.
Me:Prove it.
I don’t hit send. Suddenly, I’m sobering up at how this conversation has taken a turn. I delete the message and instead, snap a photo with my face turned away. When I look at the image, I debate if it’s something I want to send a stranger. The left side of my body peeks out from under the sheets, the curve of my breast almost exposed.
Fuck it.
It’s my birthday.
I press send and add:Thanks for being one of the best parts of my night. It was good talking to you.
Mr. Wrong Number:Jesus Christ. You’re fucking beautiful.
Me:Am I giving an old man a heart attack?
Mr. Wrong Number:You’re giving me something.
A second later, a photo of him comes through, and my mouth waters. I’m suddenly very thirsty for him. A man I don’t know. A stranger. An older stranger.
A pulse begins to throb between my legs. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve had an orgasm. I swallow thickly, staring at the most beautiful man I have ever seen.
His body is built, lean, with dark coarse silver hair across his chest and stomach.
I love when a man has a lot of hair.
But what really makes me gasp is the thick cock he’s gripping through the sheets that are bundled low on his hips. He has carved hips with deep grooves, but my gaze is locked on his hands.
They arehuge.
And the veins?
If he were here, I’d trace them with my tongue.
The photo is cut off at his face, and I zoom in, noticing the salt-and-pepper scruff on his neck. He wasn’t lying about being gray.
My hand slips down my body and in between my legs, and I find myself soaked and needy. I snap another picture, the alcohol buzzing in my veins; my rational thinking doesn’t give a damn, or I’d never do this.
Me:There is no way you look that good and there’s no way you’re that…thick.
Mr. Wrong Number:Want me to prove it?
I don’t hesitate. Even with one hand, my thumb flies over the keyboard.
Me:You better. I need something to finger fuck myself to.
Oh my god! Did I just send that?
I did. I might regret this in the morning.
I absolutely will regret this.
But right now, it’s all I can think about. My ex could never make me orgasm, and I desperately need this. One look at Mr. Wrong Number, and I can’t help myself. I’m already close. I stare at his photo, imagining licking up those abs while straddling his waist. I wonder what his lips are like. Are they thin and soft? Or plump and rough? Does he kiss for the taking or to savor?
Mr. Wrong Number:I can’t believe I’m doing this. You’re making me feel like I’m in my 20s again. I don’t often send dick pictures.
