One
DECLAN:If I were there right now, I’d start with your thighs. Spread them wide. Pin your knees. My mouth full of you.
ME:Mmm, big promises for a man who’s never actually seen what he’s working with.
DECLAN:I’ve seen enough.
DECLAN:Especially after the photos you sent last night.
ME:Speaking of pictures…
DECLAN:You want more?
ME:Maybe
DECLAN:All you have to do is ask.
ME:Will you send more pictures?
DECLAN:Nicer
ME:Please
DECLAN:Almost…
ME:Can I have more please, Mr. Thorne?
DECLAN:I can’t wait to hear you beg for more when I’m finally touching you.
ME:Bold of you to assume I’ll be the one begging.
ME:Maybe you like being told what to do.
DECLAN:You’ll find out soon enough.
ME:In person? And ruin the fantasy by making this real?
ME:Sounds dangerous… But maybe worth it.
The cab lurches over a pothole, jostling me sideways against the cracked vinyl seat. Outside, Manhattan blurs past in jerky bursts—corner bodegas, scaffolding, a guy in a Cookie Monster suit lighting a cigarette. Horns blare. Someone shouts.
In real life, I do not feel like a sexy, snarky, choose-your-own-adventure heroine. But I want to. I want to be the version of myself I’ve carefully curated for Declan Thorne over the past three months—witty, witchy, confident. The woman who sends artfully posed nudes and talks about tantric sex practices like she doesn’t routinely cry in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s.
DECLAN:Maybe?
DECLAN:I’ll fuck that maybe right out of your mouth.
I chew the inside of my cheek and drum the fingers of my free hand on my knee. There’s no real harm in being a little more myself. It’s not like we’re actually getting together in person. I’m safe from that as long as Declan is off living his jet-set businessman life, collectingstamps in his passport, and, I’m assuming, women in every time zone. He has no time for anything real.
Neither do I.
So I type it out. A little truth slipped inside the game.
ME:If you keep talking like that, I’m not sure I’ll want whatever’s happening between us to just be a fantasy.
DELIVERED.
SEEN.
