Chapter 16 Olivia
OLIVIA
I consider myself an extrovert. I love going out, meeting up with friends, having a few drinks, etc. But there isn’t a better feeling than walking through my door, alone, and letting out the biggest sigh of all time.
The door shuts behind me and with a tired, lazy hand, I manage to flip the lock. The silence is welcome after a full day of chaos. I love my best friends and my mom, so much that my heart is so full it might burst. All that energy can be a lot, though.
I managed to keep everyone off my back about who I’m dating.
My mom was curious, but she didn’t push.
She knows I’ll tell her when I’m ready to.
She knows about my nightmare dates I’ve been on lately, so she knows that if I’m choosing to keep something from her, it’s simply because I want to enjoy it myself first.
That sounds selfish now that I say it out loud.
But I’m allowed to be selfish, aren’t I?
Do people always have to know everything the moment it happens?
Why can’t I continue to get to know someone without the looming questions from people who want to know our wedding date when I don’t even know his first, middle, or last name?
I want to do this at my own pace. I want to listen to my feelings. I want to have fun and learn about this man. He’s a journey I actually want to explore.
Does that mean I’m obligated to shout it from the world? I don’t want opinions from every single person I know. I don’t want them to dim my happiness just so they can speak how they feel.
I stop halfway to my bedroom, my shopping bags in hand, when it hits me.
I don’t care about how others feel, so I’m not bothered by not telling them a damn thing. All that matters is how I feel, and how he makes me feel. So what if it all comes crashing down? So what if he isn’t who he says he is? So what if we realize we shouldn’t be together?
So. Fucking. What?
All that matters is right now.
And right now, I’m happy. I’m happier than I have been in a very long time and I want to continue to chase that feeling.
Happiness is born from moments. It doesn’t just happen.
He’s my moment. And I want more.
“You’re acting like you’re in love. Calm down, Olivia. You barely know the guy,” I tell myself, hoping I’ll listen.
But I know I won’t. He’s definitely the type of man I could see myself falling for. My heart has a mind of its own. It falls hard and fast when treated with even a dash of kindness, love, and humor. I’m a such a sucker.
Oh, well.
Dumping my shopping bags onto my bed, I look at what I’ve purchased and wonder if it’s too much.
I got a little overzealous at the lingerie boutique.
It isn’t often I buy sexy outfits. I’ve never really needed a reason before.
Knowing my relationship started on the phone, I want to grow it.
I want to tease him, excite him, show him I was thinking of him all day today while buying these skimpy little lace pieces.
I start by taking the tags off, then lay every piece flat on the bed.
There’s a purple teddy that I like the most. It’s a deep plum color that pairs well with my eyes.
The straps are thin and the neckline is a silk material that’s cut low to a narrow V.
The sides are made out of a sheer material that flows, giving it a whimsical motion.
The other outfit is sexier. It’s a dark green, nearly black, and shapes my body.
The straps are thicker and hug the sides of my shoulders, exposing my chest. The back laces corset style, and while it’s hard to tie on my own, I can manage.
I bought matching stockings that slide up to my mid-thigh and clip to the main outfit.
I got panties that match too. They’re simple. Lace, cheeky, sexy.
In another bag are a couple of dresses I thought would look cute for the first time we meet.
My phone dings and I become giddy when I see his name on the screen. I haven’t really heard from him since this morning before I left to go out to brunch. It’s nice having weekends off with my new position.
Mr. Wrong Number: I’ve had a rough day. I got called in.
I frown when I read his message.
Me: Are you okay? Do you need anything? I’ll have it delivered to you.
Mr. Wrong Number: No, I’m okay. I have most of everything I need here. Except you. I don’t know what I’d do if it were you who got rolled in here.
Rolled in where? I’m not sure. We’ve kept our jobs private for the most part.
Me: I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine. I wish I could be there for you. Are you sure you don’t need anything?
Mr. Wrong Number: I just need you to be safe. Please, promise you’ll take proper precautions.
Me: I promise.
Me: You know, if I did show up at your place of work, there’s an issue. You don’t know what I look like. You wouldn’t be able to tell if it was me or not.
Mr. Wrong Number: I don’t know if I like that. Now that today has happened, I really can’t fathom not being able to identify you in a crisis. We might need to rethink our plan.
Me: I’m comfortable with what you’re comfortable with. I understand what you’re saying. How about we give it a few days?
Mr. Wrong Number: I like the sound of that. Thank you. Yes, deal.
Me: Is this when I spit in your hand and we shake on it?
Mr. Wrong Number: Definitely not my hand ; )
Me: Since we’re on the subject. I have a surprise for you.
Mr. Wrong Number: A spit surprise? I’m curious.
Me: Ha ha. No. Not spit. I mean, it could lead to spit? Only in person though.
Mr. Wrong Number: Okay, I’m curious and I can’t stop thinking about this surprise. Show me.
Me: Depends. Are you still at work?
Mr. Wrong Number: For another hour.
Me: Perfect. Let’s see if I can distract you from the harsh realities of your job.
Mr. Wrong Number: Please, do. Make me daydream, sweetheart.
I toss my phone onto the bed and snag the purple teddy. I strip, tossing my clothes in the hamper, then slip on the new lingerie. I don’t bother with underwear. I want to show him exactly what’s waiting for him when we finally meet.
I slip the soft, silky fabric over my head, and the material flows down my body, hiding my body just enough to drive him crazy. Taking my hair down, I run my fingers through it and fluff the roots to give me some volume.
“Okay, getting there, getting there.” I look at myself in the large antique mirror I have propped up on the floor so it can lean safely against the wall.
Since I’m not going to be showing my face, I don’t have to worry about freshening up my makeup. Grabbing my phone from the bed, I start finding angles that tease him just enough, but I’m careful not to show my face.
I arch my back, tilt my head, run my fingers through my hair, and place my phone where my face is to hide it. One leg is bent, and my hair cascades down, nearly touching my lower back. He’ll be able to see just the curve of my cheeks before they’re covered by the teddy.
I bend over, and the material rides up my back, revealing my legs. Nothing is covering my ass now, but he’ll only be able to see the side. I lie down, arch my back, drag my hand up my side, and cup my breast as I take another photo.
Standing, I slip a strap off my shoulder, hide my face again with my phone, and add it to the photos I hope he likes.
I think I’ll save the other outfit for when he sees me in person. If we get that far—and I hope we do.
The sound of a notification goes off on my phone. Glancing down, I see it’s another message from him.
Mr. Wrong Number: I’m too impatient. Tell me. You’re killing me here.
Me: Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?
Mr. Wrong Number: Torturous little minx.
Me: You have no idea just how torturous I can be.
I send all the images at once.
The message is read instantly but his reply doesn’t come right away. I settle on the bed, phone in hand, hoping I didn’t make a complete fool of myself by sending him lingerie pictures. I’m getting lost in my head, the worry, fear, and anxiety taking hold.
And then my phone vibrates, finally putting me out of my misery.
Mr. Wrong Number: Fuck, sweetheart. You’re going to be the death of me.
You look fucking gorgeous. I can’t wait to see you in that.
I want to fuck you with it on, then take my time slipping it off your body, and fuck you all over again.
I want to leave you in an absolute mess.
Your throat will be raw from shouting. Your lips will be raw from my kisses.
Your body will be limp in my arms by the time I have you coming on my cock for the third time.
“Third?” I mutter to myself. “Confident, much?” No man has been able to get me to orgasm back-to-back. Only my toys have ever been that good.
Mr. Wrong Number: See? Look what you’ve done to me while I’m at work. How am I supposed to work in this condition?
A picture comes through and I gasp when a deep ache throbs my clit. I wish he was here to take care of me. All those muscles. All that power. Those tattooed arms grabbing onto me while he drives in, over and over and over again.
God.
I press my thighs together as I stare at the image.
He’s in a bathroom stall by the looks of it. He’s grabbing himself through his scrubs; the outline of his hard cock is thick. So he works in the medical field, maybe? I can’t be sure. We haven’t talked about it, but I’m curious if the man I’m talking to works at Warrick General.
What if this entire time he’s been right under my nose?
No. No way. The chances of that are slim to none. New York is a big city with millions of people. That would be impossible.
I lose focus when my gaze drops to his picture again.
I can see the outline of the crown pressing against the thin fabric. My mouth waters for a taste. I’d love nothing more than to drop to my knees and take him into my mouth, swirl my tongue around the flared tip before taking him down my throat.