Evie
evie
D raining the rest of my cab, I grab the bottle and pour the rest of the wine into my Olivia Pope - sized wineglass. Bagel sleeps peacefully in his bed in front of the fireplace media console, and there’s a trashy reality TV show playing quietly as I sketch out ideas for Roselyn’s nursery.
Over the past two weeks, Daphne has been adamant about getting me in there to paint. Eric says she’s trying to make friends with me—which is silly because we’re already friendly. She doesn’t have to hire me to get me to like her.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text from Eric.
Once again, we haven’t seen each other since he dropped me off. And although we’ve spent nearly every day texting back and forth, his absence is frustrating.
Even though I decided we can’t take whatever it is between us to a serious level, I feel a pull to him that I can’t explain.
I absentmindedly play with my necklace as I read his message.
If I have to go to one more dinner to schmooze the asses of men who have no idea what their own company does, I’m going to vomit.
A smile pulls at my lips as I sip my wine, setting my sketch pad on the coffee table and drawing my legs up to stretch out on the couch.
Order the most expensive steak on the menu and get dessert to go. It’s on the company dime, right? Better make it two desserts.
You’re positively diabolical.
How did you know I love dessert?
My heart skips a beat at the casual way he drops the L-word, even though we’re talking about food. Crossing one leg over the other, my knee-high fuzzy socks soft against my bare legs, I think about snapping a photo and sending it to him.
Maybe it’s the wine, or the fact that I’m wearing nothing but a pair of red, lacy, brief-style shorts with an oversized sweater—clothing that I feel sexy in. But I’m definitely feeling a type of way right now and feeling bold enough to do something about it .
Positioning my phone just right, I ensure the ambiance is perfectly set up in the frame of my screen. The soft glow of the fireplace, my white fuzzy socks, and my legs with the wineglass as the primary focus. Guys have a thing for bare thighs and knee-highs.
Before I can chicken out, I press send.
My dessert for tonight.
“No one said you can’t have a little fun, ,” I whisper to myself. “It’s not like it means anything.”
Eric’s reply is immediate, and I nearly choke on my wine when I read his message.
I see something else in that photo I’d rather be having for dessert.
Our texts to each other over the past two weeks have bordered on flirtatious, but we’ve never taken it this far. Sure, we’ve exchanged photos, but it’s usually of the dogs or of ourselves with the dogs.
My skin warms, that delicious dip of my stomach traveling between my legs, lighting up my lower body like a Christmas tree.
What else are you wearing?
“Fuck.” The word slips from my lips as my nipples harden into pebbles, straining against the red lace bralette beneath my sweater as though trying to reach for Eric through the phone.
Are we really doing this?
Unless that’s being too forward? I apologize if so.
A sting of disappointment lessens my arousal just a little. Sometimes, I wish Eric would stop being so nice and just take command. I have a feeling if he did, we’d both enjoy the fuck out of it.
If it can’t turn into something serious, though, do you really want to go down that road? Won’t it make things messy?
The wine decides to answer my inner conscience.
You’re adults. Stop tiptoeing around your feelings and just send him a damn sexy picture! Tomorrow’s can deal with the consequences.
“Consequences be damned,” I mumble as I set my wine on the coffee table. Bagel picks his head up, his tail thumping against the edge of his bed, but I shake my head and tell him to stay as I head to my room, where there’s a full-length mirror.
Peeling my sweater over my head, I simultaneously release the band holding my hair up, then position the mirror where I can easily pose in front of it. A thrill rushes through me. It’s toasty and sets everything inside of me on fire as I sink to my knees. I fluff my hair and pinch my cheeks even though they're already flushed from the wine.
The lights that I have strung up over my bed glitter in the mirror’s reflection, adding an aesthetic appeal to the photo. My red undergarments stand out against the rich hardwood floor and my cream duvet.
It takes me a minute to get the perfect pose. Half leaned back on my shins, legs spread so my socks are visible, one hand thrust into my messy waves while I arch my back so my breasts strain against the bralette.
I’ve never taken a photo like this for anyone, and just the simple act of it makes me wet.
That’s definitely something to explore.
I take a few shots, moving slightly for each one until I have the perfect one to send. Crossing my legs and leaning against the bed, I reach overhead for my sweater as I put the photo out into the interweb—knowing that Eric can ensure it never gets seen by anyone but him.
Setting my phone down, I only get the chance to turn my sweater right side out before Eric’s reply buzzes through.
Fuck, Evelyn. You look like a late Christmas present, complete with a bow and everything. I’m half tempted to come back for the night just so I can unwrap you.
Looking down, I realize that there is indeed a bow on my bralette.
Goddamn, the things I want to do to you.
Like what?
I guess we are really doing this.
Abandoning my sweater, I push to my feet and climb on my bed, lying against my plush pillows as every nerve ending in my body comes alive with the thought of sexting Eric while he’s out at dinner with his coworkers.
First, I’d untie that ribbon with my teeth.
My fingers trail down my body, reaching for the ends of the bows to see if they can even be unraveled. To my disappointment, they can’t.
Then I’d kiss my way down your luscious body and bury myself between those legs, taking my time to show you how much I appreciate my present.
He’s not even saying anything that borders crude, yet I can feel my wetness growing. I slip a hand beneath my underwear, my fingertips circling my entrance to gather the arousal before sliding up to start playing with my clit.
You still with me, baby?
Baby.
Fuck, why is that so hot?
Keep going.
Are you touching yourself?
My cheeks burn as I bite my bottom lip and snap a photo of my hand between my legs, then send it to him.
Fuck, Evelyn.
Do you enjoy knowing I’m rock hard at the table? Thinking of how wet you are and how badly I want to hear you scream my name when you come.
“Oh my god,” I whisper breathily.
Yes, this is exactly what I need from him.
I need Eric to throw his nice guy tendencies out the window and command me to do things to myself while thinking it’s him here doing them instead.
His texts start coming in one after the other, as if he can hear my inner prayers.
I can almost hear how wet you are for me, Evelyn.
Be a good girl and flip over. You’ll need both hands for what I want to do to you.
Set your phone on your pillow. Get on your knees and use one hand to play with your clit while you finger yourself with the other .
A strangled moan leaves my lips, and I do what he says with no hesitation.
How many fingers did you put inside yourself, baby? One? Two? By the time I get back, you’ll need to work up to at least three to fit me inside you.
“So cocky,” I murmur, even though the image of his cock being that big rips a new flood of arousal from me, and I easily slip a third finger inside myself.
And before you go thinking I’m being cocky, this is what you have to look forward to.
A photo comes in, and it’s clear that Eric went to the restaurant bathroom so we can have this conversation. In the photo, he’s fisting the base of his dick. It’s long and thick, the crown flushed and glistening with precum. My mouth waters at the thought of it sliding down my throat inch by inch until I’m gagging around him—and there’s no doubt I’ll choke on it. He definitely wasn’t being cocky—just truthful.
The thought makes me thrust against my fingers harder and faster. I pinch my clit, rubbing it between my index finger and thumb as he keeps going.
I can’t wait to fill you and feel that pussy strangle my cock. Fuck, I should have had you film yourself so I can see you getting off to the thought of that.
Are you almost there? I can just imagine you writhing beneath me as I lick my way between the valley of your breasts, sucking each of those perfect tits into my mouth as I fuck you slowly.
And yes, it will be slow.
Tortuous.
Agonizing.
Your pussy will be so well-acquainted with my tongue, my fingers, my cock, and whatever else I deem necessary to bring you to the edge over and over again before I finally make you see stars.
An unintelligible sound leaves my lips as I come around my fingers, pinching my clit so hard I can feel it pulsate with every convulsion.
As I come down from my high, I collapse into my pillows, picking up my phone with a ridiculously giddy smile.
I saw stars alright.
Is that too casual for what he just did for me? Should I reciprocate now that my hands are free?
What part of me are you thinking about right now ?
Feeling fearless, I tug my shorts down and prop my legs up, snapping a photo of my cum smeared on my inner thighs. From the way I’m positioned, Eric will be able to see the barest hint of where my mound dips and parts around my sex.
Are you thinking about fucking me here?
Next, I yank down one side of my bralette until a rosy pink nipple pops out. I snap a photo of me palming my breast, pinching the swollen bud with the fingers that are covered with the evidence of my climax.
Or how about here?
Moments later, Eric’s name pops up as an incoming call, and shock spears my chest, gripping my esophagus in its icy fingers. A shred of doubt creeps in, but I swipe to answer and bring the phone to my ear.
“Evelyn Montgomery.” His voice is low and husky as he grumbles my name. “You are fucking incredible. Do you know that?” I can tell that his breathing is heavy, like he’s experiencing the same post-orgasm bliss that I am.
My mouth can’t seem to form words, so I just breathe out a hum of content. I shiver with excitement, curling onto my side as he says, “If we keep this up, by the end of the week, I’m going to be begging you to keep me.”
I already want to keep you.
The thought spirals an icicle of grief through my warm and fuzzy feelings, poking holes as it goes, deflating all my feel-good energy. Unbidden tears line my eyes, and I fight to keep Eric from hearing the sadness that suddenly takes over me. “You should get back to your dinner. Goodnight, Eric.”
His reply sounds a little more earnest than just a second ago. “Goodnight, Evelyn.”