That has to count.
It doesn't wash away my sins.
My phone vibrates. I stop myself from checking it immediately, knowing it's Blue. There's no one else who would text me at this hour.
That matters,I tell myself.
I make it half a block before pulling it out, my heartbeat picking up the instant I read Blue's name on the screen.
All the messages she sent throughout the day are still there. Not one is demanding or frantic, and that might be the most dangerous part.
Blue: Are you still working? It's getting late. You work too hard, Dr. Mercer.
A kiss emoji is at the end.
My chest tightens. Then another message pops up.
Blue: Do you always walk home?
The hairs on my arms rise. I freeze, then glance around.
Is she here?
After a minute of surveying the area, I let out an anxious breath and continue walking, picking up my pace. A few blocks farther, my phone vibrates again. A photo of Blue glowing under a streetlight appears.
My pulse skyrockets. I spin and glance around, but can't find anything.
"Outta the way," a bicyclist shouts.
I shift to the side, barely missing him as he flies past me.
"Asshole!" I mutter, then step against the cold brick, and quickly gaze down the street both ways.
She's not here.
I look at the photo again.
Why's she outside?
I'm paranoid.
After another survey, I walk as fast as I can, down two more blocks, then turn the corner. My building comes into view, and I step into the lobby, still unable to shake the feeling Blue's following me, even though she's nowhere to be seen.
I stop at my mailbox, unlock it, and pull out a handful of bills. Then I make my way inside my home. I toss them on the side table, go to the fridge and grab a beer, then plop down on the sofa. I gulp the cold drink, swallow, then take several more mouthfuls, trying to push the thought of Blue out of my mind.
I can't.
Temptation wins, and I do what I shouldn't. I grab my phone and open the hidden folder where I stored all of the photos she sent.
The first one that pops up is her pussy. Heat spikes hard inside me, and I take another sip, study it for several minutes while my cock turns hard, then make myself swipe to the next one.
They're all innocent on the surface, but my erection says they're not. I stare at the smoothie raised toward the camera with her face angled just enough to catch the light. Her bright eyes and curved mouth, sucking on the straw, don't help my predicament.
Those virgin lips belong on my cock.
Jesus Christ. This is wrong.
A flash of what I imagine she'd look like in the white lingerie she made taunts me. My chest tightens, and I run a finger over her lips. It's as if my body recognizes something that my brain refuses to name. At first, it confuses me, then it rushes at me.
