Me:I don’t either. We can make each other feel good for a night—unless you don’t want to. No pressure at all.
Mr. Wrong Number:Are you kidding? Do you know how badly I want to be with you right now so you can wrap your hands around my cock? I bet your fingers couldn’t touch.
Me:Keep talking to me like that. Show me what I’m missing.
I reach for my nightstand, deciding I need more than my fingers. I pull out a thick purple dildo, wishing it was replaced with Mr. Wrong Number. I’m so wet, I don’t need any lubricant. I moan, loving how the stretch slightly burns.
I whimper, angling the dildo in a way that hits that spot inside me.
Mr. Wrong Number:This, you mean?
A second later, a video pops up, and all I have to do is press play, but I already know what I’m about to watch.
I fuck myself faster with the dildo, biting my bottom lip as I watch him fuck his fist. He’s right—there’s no way my hand would fit around that beast. He’s huge, with a wide tip and a vein that I so badly want to lick. His moans echo in the background and I wish I could see his face.
Mr. Wrong Number:Is this what you wanted? You better be touching yourself to me. You better wish it was me fucking you right now. You wouldn’t be able to get away from me. I’d fuck you hard, so you feel me for days, so you know that ache was caused by me and only me.
I press record, sending him a video of me fucking myself on the dildo. I don’t make a show of it; I just do what I usually do. I gasp and moan, fucking myself fast, the way I like it.
And then I press send.
2
OLIVIA
Oh my god.
My head hurts. No, it’s beyond that. It’s throbbing. It’s killing me. I don’t think I’ll be able to get out of bed without throwing up all over my floor. I groan, tossing my arm over my eyes as I let my body adjust to unfortunately being awake.
This. This feeling right here. This is why I no longer go out, because I don’t know the stopping point. There’s no middle ground for me. When I drink, I’m fine, and then I’m not.
I turn over, moaning in pain when it feels like my brain is slamming against the side of my skull. I’m never drinking again. Ever.
Closing my eyes, I try to fall asleep again. When I lift my arm, it smacks against something near me, and I peek one eye open to see what it is.
“Go me,” I grumble when I see the purple dildo.
No wonder I feel a little sore.
My phone buzzes from somewhere in my bed and I groan, not wanting to answer it. Patting the bed half-heartedly, I try to find it. But I don’t really want to find it. All I want to do is go back to bed. Finally snagging my phone, I rub my eyes and turn down the brightness on the screen.
Mr. Wrong Number:How are you feeling this morning?
“What?” The screen is blurring.
Forcing myself to sit up, I yawn, snag the water bottle from my nightstand, and guzzle it down until there’s nothing left.
“Ugh, I am never going to that club again.”
I hear a knock on the door before it opens—it’s Vic and Amber. I would laugh at how ridiculous they look if I had the energy. Victoria’s hair is still up as if she’s been electrocuted and Amber’s makeup is so smeared, it looks like she cried herself to sleep.
“How are you walking?” I rasp, wishing I had more water.
“Am I?” Vic stumbles, catching herself on the doorframe. “I think I’m still drunk.”
“Me too,” Amber echoes. “We ordered coffee. Got your caramel whatever you like. It’s delivered outside the door.”
“You guys are so sweet. Thank you. That sounds fantastic.”
