Read My Lips(57)

I smirk and let out a chuckle, then nod at him and say, “I’ll be outside,” before dismissing myself from the bathroom.

Well. So far, he’s not the dick I was expecting. Instead, he’s all nice and normal and shit.

I sit on a bench in the hallway, waiting for Kellen to do his business in the bathroom while I stare down at my phone and beg telepathically for Dessie to answer my text and put me out of my misery. To be fair, I’m certain I subjected Dessie to a misery of her own when I was lost in a swamp of bitterness all Sunday, refusing to answer her texts.

I’m such an idiot. I deserve this.

I clench shut my eyes and squeeze my phone until my hands cramp. Behind those eyelids, I feel the pull of the dream world as I imagine Dessie and I back on that couch, slowly pulling each other’s clothes off. Why did she stop us? Why did she put an end to something that was so fucking perfect and real and hot? I hadn’t been that intimate with anything other than my right hand for so long, I felt like a fucking horny teen again.

That’s what Dessie does to me. And Dream Dessie is about five times as cruel as doesn’t-return-my-texts Dessie. She pushes me down on that imaginary couch and opens her bra to me. When her breasts emerge in front of my face, I feel my cock stiffen in my pants so much, it aches.

There’s something about being sleepy that makes a guy so susceptible to having a raging-hard boner.

I press the phone down into my lap, eyes still closed, and grunt against my hard-on that grows bigger and harder by the second.

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.