Page 3 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

The gates are barely wide enough when I barrel through. I slam my palm against the steering wheel.

“What is wrong with you, Laurel?” I scream into the empty car.

Why did I say that? Why couldn’t I just shut up like a normal human being?

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. I always do this when I’m nervous. Ramble, and think out loud when I absolutely shouldn’t.

“Idiot,” I mutter, gripping the wheel tighter.

What kind of grown woman blurts something like that to a student’s father?

This is bad. This is really bad. What if he reports me? What if he calls the school and tells them exactly what happened? How do I explain why I made an inappropriate comment to a parent in his own home?

My breathing quickens. I can practically see my career unraveling in front of me. God no. I can’t lose this job.

I’ve worked too hard to get here, late nights, student loans that I’m still paying off, scraping and saving, proving myself over and over just to earn my place at Prudence Elementary. If I lose this job, I lose everything I’ve built for myself.

My chest tightens as worst-case scenarios pile up in my mind. Starting over. Trying to explain to future employers why I was dismissed. The shame alone makes my stomach twist.

I exhale shakily, trying to slow my breathing. Okay. Breathe. Maybe he won’t report it. Maybe he’ll chalk it up to an awkward misunderstanding. I cling to the thought, hoping that will be the case.

I make it back to my apartment on autopilot. I drop onto the couch and just… stare at the blank television screen. What the actual hell did I just do?

I tip my head back against the cushion, eyes squeezing shut, and let out a long, shaky breath. “Fuck,” I whisper to the ceiling. “What a hot mess.”

My mind doesn’t stay on the embarrassment for long. It slides right back to him. But damn! I can’t stop thinking about that cock. I can’t help but imagine what it would feel like stretching me, filling me until I couldn’t breathe, until all I could do was cling to him and beg.

The thought sends a fresh rush of heat between my legs. I press my thighs together, trying to ignore the ache building there.

I need a voice of reason. Someone who will tell me to get a grip, or at least laugh me back into reality. No better person for that than my best friend Tasha.

I reach for my purse still slung over my shoulder and pull out my phone. Tasha’s working the bar tonight, so a call’s out of the question. I opt for text instead.

I open our chat and start typing, fingers flying.

Me: Girl you will NOT believe what just happened to me

Me: I went to Mr. Volkov’s house for the parent meeting as planned, and I walked in on him basically naked.

Me: Like robe open, fresh from shower, NOTHING underneath. And I stared. Like full-on stared. And then I BLURTED OUT “God, that cock is huge”

Me: In my defense IT WAS. Huge. Like porn-star huge but better. Thicker. Longer. Perfect. God I’m so wet just thinking about it. What I would give to have him split me open with that cock. Pin me down, fuck me until I can’t walk, make me scream his name while he chokes me with those big hands and tells me what a good girl I am for taking every inch. I’m sure he knows exactly how to use it.

I hit send, exhale hard, feeling a little better after letting it off my chest. I’m sure Tasha will get a good laugh when she reads my message.

I toss the phone onto the cushion, push myself up, and pad to the fridge in search of dinner. I reach for the leftover pizza from last night when Tasha came over.

I flip open the lid, the cheese slightly congealed, but who cares. I slide two slices onto a plate, and pop it in the microwave. The hum fills the quiet apartment while I snag the half-drunk bottle of Coke from the door shelf.

Ding.

I carry the steaming plate and the Coke back to the couch, kicking off my heels and propping my feet on the coffee table. I take the first bite, and a long swig of Coke, then reach for my phone to scroll through social media.

The screen lights up. My heart stops when I notice the chat header doesn’t say “Tasha”.

It says “Leonid Volkov”. I had messaged him instead of Tasha!

In my rush, I didn’t notice which chat I opened. My last messages were with Leonid, confirming our meeting. My thumb must have tapped the wrong thread.