Something Reckless(25)

Tink24: I think I could manage, but what about you in all of this?





Riverrat69: This is just the foreplay, baby. If you’re wet, I’m good.





Tink24: I would be . . . I am.





Riverrat69: It’d be after the restaurant. After I got you off right there in public, after I watched pleasure wash over your face as you came, then it would be my turn.





Tink24: Would you take me home? Tie me up?





Riverrat69: Maybe we’d go to your place but I’d bring everything I needed to tie you to the bed. Would you like that?





Tink24: I want that.





Riverrat69: Since this is all just a fantasy and we both know you’ll be with some other idiot tomorrow night, would you do me a favor?





Tink24: What’s that?





Riverrat69: Put your hand in your panties.





Tink24: Who said I’m wearing panties?





Riverrat69: You’re going to be the death of me.





Rereading last night’s conversation has me shifting uncomfortably in bed. One hell of a way to start my day, but I went to sleep thinking about him, dreamed about him, woke with him on my mind.

I close my eyes and picture everything he described. I imagine Sam next to me in the restaurant. Sam whispering dirty words in my ear while he fingers me under the table.

I press my head into the pillow and whimper. Sam would do those things. And as much as I question my ability to orgasm in a public place, I know Sam could do it. He’d have me coming on his hand before dessert came. And after . . .

Rolling over, I bury my face in the pillow. It doesn’t matter what would happen next. Like River said, everything he described is just a fantasy. And this idea in my head that my anonymous online friend—who likes to talk dirty to me, who wants to tie me up—the idea that he is Sam, that Sam is River, that’s probably just a fantasy too. Albeit a long-running one.

And if it is Sam, the idea that he could forgive me enough to want to do those things with me again? That’s definitely a fantasy.



* * *





Sam


I plunge my hands into her hair and open my mouth against her breast, drawing her nipple between my teeth—a little rough, just like she likes it. She’s blindfolded and her hands are stretched above her head, tied with my ropes to the second floor banister. She’s completely at my mercy, a fact that arouses us both.

I’m working my way down her body, kissing, tasting, licking every inch of skin along the way. Liz moans my name. I don’t stop. Instead, I suck at the tender flesh over her hipbone and slide my hand between her legs, where she’s hot and slick and ready for me.

“Sam!” she screams this time. “Sam! Sam!” Then again and again until my name becomes more of a piercing screech than a word.

Groaning, I roll over and smack the snooze button on my alarm clock with more force than necessary. I’m not interested in examining why I’m dreaming about Liz Thompson when I don’t even talk to her anymore. The dreams are frequent and increasingly frustrating, and my cock doesn’t give two shits that I shouldn’t want her, so I take my dick in my fist, close my eyes, and imagine Liz tied up like she was in my dream.

I tighten my grip and imagine cradling her ass in my hands as I drive into her so hard the walls rattle. I can practically hear the breathy little noises she makes when I’m touching her. And though my hand is a piss-poor substitute for being inside her body, the fantasy makes jacking off more satisfying than usual and has me coming hard and fast before the alarm sounds again.





Chapter Two





Liz



Once upon a time, I believed there was nothing I loved more in this world than a dirty-talking man—the scratch of his beard against my neck between quiet suggestions in my ear, the low rumble of his voice, the heady intoxication of knowing where the night was going, knowing he wanted the same things I did.

But I was wrong. Because while a lot of men can talk dirty, I can count on one hand the number of men I’ve met who can do it well. In my dating escapades of the last eight months, I’ve learned there are two kinds of dirty talkers in this world: the ones who use language like foreplay and make my knees turn to putty, and the ones who talk dirty by channeling bad rap lyrics.

“I wanna put it in you, baby,” my date says.

His name is Harry. And he is—hairy, I mean. He’s the kind of guy who wears his polo shirt unbuttoned so thick tufts of wiry chest hair stick out. I’m not opposed to chest hair, but I am in favor of grooming and trimming where appropriate. If that’s the condition of the stuff on his chest, can you imagine what’s happening under his briefs?

“You want me to put it in you, don’t you?” He sounds so sure of himself.