It's intimacy.
I swipe quickly, like speed will undo the fact that I saw it at all, but the image of her sucking on the straw, wearing white, barely-there lingerie, lingers anyway. Her expression and the way she framed herself were deliberate but not overt, as if she wanted approval without asking for it.
My innocent little Bluebird.
An annoying throb takes hold of me. I take another swig, unzip my pants, and push my hand inside. I grip my shaft and slide my hand over it. Then I swipe to the photo of her with egg yolk barely dripping down her lip.
My cock pulses against my fingers. I groan, my mouth watering, wanting to lick it off her, and pull up the message she sent with the photo.
Blue: Proud of me?
"So fucking proud, my dirty little Bluebird," I mutter, my cheeks heating and blood pounding between my ears. My breath catches.
Fuck. What am I doing?
I tug my hand out of my pants.
This is exactly what shouldn't be happening.
She's attaching to me.
I let her.
Scratch that. I encouraged it.
She wants me to get off on her photos.
I replay my responses to her texts, dissecting tone, phrasing, and timing. I try to determine if I crossed the linetoday, because last night is already its own sealed file. After I reread everything a dozen times, I decide I was appropriate, brief, and redirecting.
Still, the fact that she sent photos at all means she felt close enough to do it. And I didn't stop it soon enough.
How could I? She's a beautiful virgin waiting for me to deflower her.
Jesus. I'm fucked.
I finish my beer, set it on the table, and put my hands over my face, then take deep breaths, trying to eliminate the vision of her in the white lingerie.
She made it for me.
"Fuck!" I bark, rising off the couch, and telling myself that tonight ends with distance. No more texts. No more indulgence. I did my duty. I'll reinforce it tomorrow.
I move toward the kitchen, grab another bottle of beer, and a chill runs down my spine. I freeze, as the earlier unease creeps back in.
Is she here?
I'm paranoid.
Am I?
I move toward the window.
The city is a smear of gold and black beyond the glass. Headlights drag lines through the street. I glance around but don't see Blue.
I'm reacting to shadows and caffeine and guilt.
I'm not the kind of man who gets rattled by a patient's text messages and a few photos.
As much as I try to convince myself she's not there, the chill won't leave my spine. So I scan the buildings, and fire hits my veins.
