Dessie’s tits are in my face and I can’t shake away this fantasy. “Clayton,” I imagine her whimpering in a voice I’ve never heard before. “Put your cock inside me, Clayton. Deep inside.” Fuck, Dessie, I want to so bad. She’s squirming on top of me, gyrating those sexy, tight hips of hers against my junk. “Fuck me. Oh, Clayton, I’m so fucking wet for you.”
She’d probably never talk like that.
It doesn’t matter in dream land. I can’t grind my cock through my pants any harder. What if she texted back right now? The vibration would race through my cock like it was her actual hand, gripping it. Please, Dessie, I might as well beg. Please text me. I need to feel you in so many ways right now.
A hand on my shoulder shakes me from the dream. I flick my eyes open.
Kellen’s looking down at me, drying his hands with a paper towel. His lips move: “You okay?”
Scrunched up as I am, I probably look like I have a cramp or something. For a split second, I honestly debate whether I should slip back into the bathroom and choke one out real quick. “Yeah, I’m good,” I say instead. “Is … Is it okay if you type what you … what you say so we can—?”
He nods curtly, holding up a hand as he, again, types one-handed into his phone. Kellen must have one speedy-ass thumb. He lifts the screen, telling me he’s ready and excited to see what he’s got to work with whenever I am.
I shift my legs, praying my stiffy is strangled into submission enough not to tent my jeans, then rise from the bench and lead the way to the main stage auditorium.
After an hour or so with Kellen Michael Wright, I have made the unfortunate discovery that he is, in fact, a very knowledgeable, talented, and personable guy who is patient as hell in communicating to me through texts on his phone. I respond with voice as much as I can, pushing myself to talk despite my unremitting insecurities.
I hate to say it, but I can probably learn a shitload from this shithead.
It’s easy to take him around the theater this early, as there’s only a handful of classes happening in the rehearsal room and the black box, but nothing on the main stage where all his attention will be in designing the lights. I show him the grid. I show him what we have available on the fly system. I show him the booth and the two spots, though he won’t be using either.
I’m about to take him back to the office when my phone trembles.
“One second,” I tell him, though he’s distracted by a Fresnel he’s examining on the lighting rack anyway.
I stare down at my phone in disbelief:
DESSIE
Was it because I didn’t put out?
I gawk at her text. Is she fucking serious? I read it seven billion times, growing more pissed with every pass of my eyes over the words. Since Kellen is still occupied, I mash my thumbs to respond:
ME
Why would u say that?
DESSIE
Just wondering why you went
cold fish on me.
I’ve had two whole days
to consider what I did.
ME
U didn’t do anything.
Can we get a bite?
To chat?
Breakfast?
Lunch, maybe?
10 or 11?
DESSIE
Okay.
Okay? That’s it? So is it 10 or 11? Breakfast or lunch? Yes or no? Fuck, she’s being so infuriating! I gotta remind myself that I’m the damn reason for all this weirdness. It’s my fucking fault.
Kellen shows me the screen of his phone, asking me where the office is because he wants to check in with “Ol’ Marvin” before he goes. I nod and tell him to follow me, pocketing my phone and swallowing a growl along with all my frustrated thoughts of Dessie.
I lead him to the office doors. After we exchange numbers, Kellen thanks me with a handshake, which I take to be my permission to go before he slips into the office. I check my phone one last time, then shove it away after finding the screen irritatingly blank.
When I look up to push open the glass doors of the lobby, Dessie is making her way in.
We stop, frozen by one another’s presence.
“Hi,” I greet her first, my eyes wide.
She’s beautiful today. Her hair falls in waves and tangles of brown, and she’s in a green sundress with yellow flowers along the bottom rim of it, which is about the most colorful thing I’ve seen her wear yet. I’m already imagining how smooth her legs would be if I ran my hands up them, sliding that dress up with it and discovering the color of her panties. Maybe if I ask nicely enough, she won’t wear any at all.
She gives me a little wave of her hand—Hi. Her eyes, light brown and shimmering, seem guarded. It cuts me deep that I don’t know what she’s thinking, if she’s already over me, just tolerating me, or still gives half a shit about what went on between us Saturday. I almost devoured her. I was so close. She wanted it too. We craved each other’s taste all night; I could tell in the magnetic way she drew toward me when I pulled away, or how every nerve in my body vibrated with electricity when her wicked finger traced my tattoo. I’d draw a roadmap of ink all over my body if it meant having her touch all over me.