“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whimpers.
“Happy birthday to me.”
“And to me, at this point. Holy fuck, that was…”
“I know. Heaven’s sake, my entire body feels like Jell-O.”
“I can’t even get up right now. Fucking Christ, the things you do to me, woman.”
“Well, ditto.”
We fall silent again, still struggling to recuperate. When my phone blips next to me, I expect it’s some random notification. I throw a vague look at it though, and I see it’s a message. From him. Puzzled, I pick up the iPhone and open the text. He sent me a picture.
No, he sent me thehottestpicture I have ever seen in my entire life. Sexy enough to make my insides spasm one last time.
I must have made a sound, a moan or something, because he cockily asks through the speaker, “See what you did to me?”
Oh, I do. I really, really do.
In the picture he took, I can see his softening dick with the piercing at the tip catching the light, but the main star is his big and strong hand. His palm and fingers are sticky with semen, white and thick against his calloused skin.
“Did you lose your tongue again, red?”
That brings me back to the present. I kick my feet to get the jeans to lower, so I can spread my legs better. “Yes. It’s on its way to New York to lick all of that off you.”
He lets out a surprised laugh. Trying to be discreet so he doesn’t see it coming, I bring the phone between my legs, struggling to figure out how to take a decent picture of my drenched folds.
“Do you want me to save it for you in a vial or something?” he offers.
“Don’t tempt me. I’m so hungry right now.”
“Then go eat something.”
“I will.”
The first picture I snap is out of focus, so I delete it and try again. This one isn’t perfect, but at least better, so I hit send.
A second passes. Two. Three. And—
“Fucking hell… That’s not fair, red.”
“You started it, and I finished it.”
“We clearly both finished.”
His wit makes me laugh until I hear a sound outside. Shoot, right. I’m busy pulling my pants up when he asks, “Can I print and frame it? I promise I won’t let anyone else see it. But your pussy is a fucking work of art, and after you come, it’s a masterpiece.”
“This is for your eyes only, wombat. It doesn’t leave your phone—ever.”
“But I need something to start my Genevieve Kensington shrine.”
I giggle again. “I’ll give you a lock of my hair if you want, but not that.”
“Well, now I want both.”
Another sound echoes from the hallway outside, and I have to accept that this fun moment is coming to an end. I lower my bra and rebutton my blouse. While I hate being sticky like this, I like the idea of not washing up right away, so I can feel the remnants of what we did for the next hour or so. Until I have to get ready for Victoria’s memorial.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” I reluctantly say. “Thank you for this, Jake. I feel a little more ready to face the day now.”
