16. Josephine
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Josephine
I make it all the way back to the clinic before I check my phone, which, considering the day I’ve had, feels like a small miracle.
The truck engine ticks as it cools beneath me, heat pressing in through the windshield, dust still clinging to my jeans and boots. I just sit there with my hands resting on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular.
Because if I don’t look at my phone, then nothing has changed. If I don’t look, then Clay McCoy isn't suddenly back in my life, standing in front of me on crutches with that same infuriating pull that makes rational thought feel optional. If I don’t look, then I’m still in control.
I exhale slowly, then I reach for it anyway.
One message.
Clay: Sorry if that was weird today. I didn’t handle it great.
My chest tightens.
I stare at it longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the screen.
I could ignore it.
That would be the smart choice. The controlled choice. The version of me that has spent years building a life that doesn’t depend on anyone else would absolutely ignore it.
But that version of me didn’t spend the morning standing inches away from him, heart racing like it had something to prove.
That version of me isn’t currently carrying his children.
And being near him made the secret feel uglier.
I press my lips together.
This is exactly what I didn’t want.
Complicated, messy, and yet…
My fingers move anyway.
Josie: It was weird.
I pause. Too blunt? Probably. Too honest? Definitely. I hit send before I can overthink it.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Clay: Yeah. Figured you’d say that.
I huff out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh catching in my throat.
Josie: You’re on crutches. That alone qualifies as weird.
Clay: You don’t like them? I think they really add to my charm.
I shake my head despite myself.
Josie: Your definition of charm is questionable.
Clay: Worked on you once.
My breath catches. I stare at the message, heat creeping up my neck before I can stop it.
This is the problem.
This right here.
He makes everything feel lighter than it is, simpler, like we’re still in that space where none of this has consequences.
But it does.
It has consequences I haven’t even told him about yet.
I should stop.
Josie: That was a one-time lapse in judgment.
Clay: Sure it was.
How does this always happen?
By the time I climb into bed, the tone of the messages has shifted completely. My heart is absolutely thundering.
Josie: Clay, you know that’s not work-appropriate.
Clay: I’m not at work. I don’t think you are at this time either.
Josie: Still inappropriate.
Clay: Then why aren’t you deleting my number?
I stare at the ceiling, trying to think of a retort that isn’t just a moan typed into digital air.
Josie: Not sure. Probably bad judgment.
Clay: Or maybe you just like the way I taste.
My thighs press together, hard, as if that could keep the ache contained.
Josie: Is that so?
Clay: I hope so. I think about it a lot.
I should end this conversation before it turns into something I can’t justify anymore.
Instead, my hand is under the covers, pressing between my legs over the fabric of my shorts because I’ve missed this.
Josie: Tell me.
Clay: You want me to talk dirty to you again?
My hand slides down my body.
Josie: Are you touching yourself?
Clay: I’m hard as fuck. I want you to touch yourself and pretend it’s my tongue.
My breath falters as I squeeze, pressing through two layers of cotton, desperate for friction but not ready to give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
Josie: I don’t pretend.
Clay: Then tell me what it feels like. Tell me how wet you are.
I slide my hand underneath, fingers skimming sticky skin, two points of contact at once. One real, one memory.
The ache surges up my body, so intense it almost makes me angry.
Josie: I’m as drenched as that night.
Clay: You always were greedy.
His texts always land in the right spot, dirty and just a touch funny, like he doesn’t know he’s allowed to want things this much, but he’s going to anyway.
I fuck myself slow, thumb circling, phone trapped in my other hand, focus split in a way that feels dangerous.
Clay: Are you in your room?
I hesitate, just long enough for my pulse to spike, for the heat to bloom where my neck meets my jaw. My hair is still damp from the shower, the sheets half kicked down. If I inhale, it’s all clay dust and chlorine and the impossible memory of his skin.
Josie: Yes. In bed. Touching my clit.
Clay: Fuck. Wish I could see you. Are your thighs shaking yet?
Josie: Not yet.
Clay: Bet I could make you. Bet I could get you there in under two minutes, easy.
He might be right. He usually is. My hand works, slow and mean, refusing to escalate.
I want more, want everything, want him on his knees and me in his hands, but I can’t admit that. Even now, with the entire world reduced to a blue-lit phone screen and the curling of my hips on the mattress, I can’t admit it.
I want him to hear every whimper. More, I want him to want it, want me, just as badly.
He keeps going.
Clay: Want you to spread your legs wide, Jo. Want your whole hand on your pussy. Need you loud.
I bite the inside of my cheek until it almost bleeds, but my hand obeys, two fingers plunging in while my thumb holds relentless pressure.
The phone sags in my grip, and I hear my own voice, high and shuddering, with no one to muffle it except the memory of his teeth on my throat.
Josie: Fuck, almost there.
A video call comes through.
His name flashes across the screen, and my stomach twists hard.
Shit.
For a second, I just stare at it.
At the secret sitting between us.
At the tiny lives he still knows nothing about.
I should decline it. I should tell him the truth before this goes any further.
Instead, I thumb accept without thinking, and there he is, all forehead and the too bright light of a lamp, the camera jittery as he shifts to prop himself up on an elbow.
“Jeez,” he says, “didn’t think you’d pick up.”
I don’t bother to hide my face, or the panting, or the tremor in my hand as I prop the phone on my chest and let him look.
My knees are up, sheets tangled around my thighs, hand still buried exactly where it was when I hit accept. His face fills the phone, hungry, almost bruised with wanting.
“Show me,” he says.
I slide my hand out, slick with it, and push my shorts down just far enough to make it real. My clit is swollen, blushing dark against the rest of me. I circle it once, slow, and he blinks, swallowing hard.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he says, and I’m torn between wanting to laugh at him and wanting to sob, because I want him to look at me and see every atomic particle of the need that’s burning me alive.
“You’re hard,” I say, all pretense gone, and he shifts, adjusting the phone, one of his hands visible and moving beneath the frame of the camera, no ambiguity to what he’s doing.
“I’ve been hard for you all fucking night,” he says, and I can see the muscle jump in his jaw, knuckles whitening as his hand works.
I bring my fingers up to my lips, shiny and trembling, and suck them clean. His eyes follow, pupils blown so wide there’s almost no blue left.
“Christ,” he says, almost a groan, “do that again.”
So I do. Twice.
The second time's meaner, teeth on knuckle, tongue lingering, and I watch the moment it breaks him open, the way he shudders and bites out my name, and there’s a surge of pride, so much it almost feels like hope, sharp and giddy and stupid. He wants me like this. Wants me so bad it hurts.
“Go on,” he says. “Come for me, Jo.”
He’s got me that easily.
Like I was always going to fall for him the second he asked.
My hips jerk up, and I can’t manage a coherent sound, just something desperate and breathless, and the orgasm rips through me so hard my vision goes white at the edges.
My legs kick out, knees knocking the phone, and I ride it as long as my body lets me, his face blurry on the screen and his name on my lips like a plea.
When it ebbs, there’s a rush of something else.
Relief hits first. Then the ache follows right behind it.
I want him here.
I want his arms around me, the weight and warmth of him, the kind of comfort he somehow gives without trying.
My eyes flutter open, and I’m grinning like an idiot, chest heaving, fingers still curled. Clay’s expression is a tangle of relief and want, all barriers dropped. He says my name again, like it’s the only thing he knows how to say.
It doesn’t feel casual. Not even close.
I watch his hand pump out the last of it, rough and rapt, phone jostling as his grip shudders. The sound he makes is raw. My name again, pitched somewhere between prayer and curse. I want to touch him. Want to be the one making him fall apart, not just the reason he’s doing it alone.
I almost say that. But then I remember myself, remember the line I’ve promised not to cross.
I soak in the aftermath a little longer, his breath slowing on the other end of the call, my own heartbeat leveling out.
We’re two people with too much distance between us and too much want pretending that doesn’t mean anything.
“You’re a menace,” he murmurs, fingers loose, satisfaction radiating off of him in great humid waves. “Wish you didn’t have to hang up.”
There’s a laugh caught somewhere in his throat, but mostly it’s longing, stretched so thin it’s almost tender.
I hesitate. For some reason I don’t want to lose the connection. I want to listen to the background: the clack of ancient air conditioning, the faint noise of the TV in another room, the echo of whatever loneliness keeps him up at this hour with only me for company.
I want to let him watch me burning bliss in the aftermath, the trouble he’s made. The silence is comfortable, or as near as I get to it.
Finally, he says: “You going to sleep now?”
I nod, because what else can I say? “I think so.”
He grins, but then he goes soft around the edges, gaze hazy and open in a way I haven’t seen before.
“You need anything, you text me,” he says, and even through the glow of post orgasmic aftershocks, I know he means it.
“Go to sleep, McCoy,” I whisper. He nods, all tired satisfaction.
“Night, Jo.” I end the call but keep the phone nestled in the crook of my arm, the last caught image of his stupid, beautiful face burned into my retinas.
Sleep doesn’t come easily after that.
I lie awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of the call while one thought keeps circling louder than the rest.
How much worse is this going to hurt when I finally tell him about the babies?