I blink, my breath catching.
Me: That sounds like a you problem, Coach.
Three dots appear. Stop. Start again. Then finally?—
WhiskeyAndInk: It is. But you’re also the only problem I haven’t wanted to solve.
My heart thuds hard in my chest.
Me: Careful, Gray. That almost sounded like flirting.
WhiskeyAndInk: I’m old, not dead.
Me: Well that’s good. Because if you were dead, I wouldn’t have anyone to fantasize about bossing me around on the field and in bed.
No reply. Just the typing bubble blinking. And I wait—grinning this time.
The typing bubble disappears. Then comes back.
WhiskeyAndInk: Jesus, Luke.
Me: Not exactly the name I want you moaning. But we can work on that.
I stretch out on the bed, door shut between me and my roommates, phone glowing in my hand. My heart is hammering, anticipation curling low in my gut.
WhiskeyAndInk: Tu si eres un hermoso desastre.
I pause and pull up a google search needing to know what that means. Hmm. You really are a beautiful disaster.Fitting. I bite my lip again and type out another message.
Me: You like it. You liked it that night in your bed, when I said your name like a prayer and begged you not to stop.
No answer, just the bubble. I smirk, letting my thumb hover over the screen.
Me: You gonna pretend you don’t remember the way I trembled under you? How I clawed at your back, left scratches down your spine because you wouldn’t let me come until you said I could? How I followed every single command?
Still nothing. But I know he’s reading it. Feeling it. So I go for the kill.
Me: Bet your hand’s already on your cock just thinking about it.
WhiskeyAndInk: You need to be careful.
I snort. I’m not sure I know how to be careful.
Me: Or what?
WhiskeyAndInk: Or I’ll stop pretending this is a mistake. And next time I get my hands on you, I won’t stop at just once. I’ll keep you from coming until you’re wrecked and ruined and begging to be mine.
Fuck.
I let out a breath, eyes fluttering shut as heat pulses through me. My fingers tighten around the phone.
Me: Say less.
WhiskeyAndInk: Tell me what you’re wearing.
I grin, slow and sinful, already reaching down to palm myself through my jeans.
Me: Nothing but the thought of you.
