It happens.
WN
You also sent me a peek into your bag.
Panic flutters, and I shakily swipe through the photos because what if I had a box of tampons, or a period cup, or something? I have both, and it depends on my mood. But there are just the million and one folded photocopies that are sitting on my small kitchen counter because I forgot to shred them. And the dirty little book I'm reading.
That is my own personal bet. I could read it on my Kindle, but I think it is funny to read a smutty book on the train. It is not even a romance, it is sex under the guise of a girl who gets a happy ending with group cock.
So far, it is a little disappointing. It is frilly with just enough sex to make a girl feel naughty. If they are going to market a book like that as smut for the thinking woman and not make it a romance per se, then bring on the smut.
I'm no expert, but if it is meant to be sex, give me no-holds-barred sex.
Book form feels safer and cleaner than real life.
Me
And?
I think he is going to comment on that book.
WN
Wild Bets?
Bingo.
I half-smile, trying to throw myself into this conversation I know would normally have me hugging myself and singing, dancing in the apartment because he is my escape from real life.
But normal is turning out to be a real bitch.
When I don't respond, I get another incoming text.
WN
Your book?
Me
What about it?
WN
Tell me all about it.
A shiver runs down my spine, but all I say is,It's a book on owning the betting tables.
WN
Uh huh.
Me
Go read it yourself.
He takes a few moments, but another text comes in.
WN
