24. Rhodes
24
Rhodes
A text comes through the second I set my phone down on the kitchen counter, and I wonder if it’s Paige changing her mind. A man can hope.
Instead, it’s a photo that immediately has me dropping my phone on the floor as if it’s on fire, and I suppose it sort of is.
Paige.
Is.
Naked .
Mostly.
“Fuck,” I say out loud, covering my mouth with one hand as I try to absorb what is on my phone screen.
Paige:
I want to know exactly what you do with this.
A weird noise I don’t recognize leaves my mouth as my entire sense of decorum and friendliness leaves my body in a rush. What I want to do is nothing close to what I probably should. I’m turned on and thinking only with the reptilian part of my brain that says I need her right the fuck now .
But I can’t do that.
I can’t have her the way I want.
This picture is a damn close second, however. The way her hand is lazily covering her nipple, exposing most of her beautiful breast, is delicious. She’s bare and vulnerable, and I’ve never been more turned on. No cold shower or pickleball tournament will rid me of this feeling, the one sparking in my heart and lower.
I’m aimlessly shuffling around my apartment with no real destination, only the need to keep moving. Sensation climbs my spine and catapults off as I stare, licking and biting my lower lip as I think.
I want to lick her from her head to her toes, devouring every part of her.
I want to print this picture and frame it on my wall if it were appropriate.
I want to listen to the blood flow pooling in my dick.
I want so much more than this, but mostly, I want her on the phone with me when I tell her all of these things. I don’t want to just think them.
I’m done doing that.
We’ve stepped out of best friend land and have entered a far more exciting place with possibility. But she’s going out tonight and completely unavailable for hours. If she wasn’t, I’m sure we’d be well on our way to third base via video chat.
There’s one part of my rational brain that screams out with questions.
Why is she sending you this ?
Does this mean she wants a relationship?
Is she ready ?
Am I ?
I keep staring at the photo, tapping my screen when it tries to go dark as I stop pacing. I’m going to waste all of my battery just by looking at this photo all night. But should I? Can I? When I had her on the phone, it didn’t bother me. I was ready to dive headfirst into phone sex—something I’ve never done before—without any real context. But now, I have a chance to consider everything.
Damn brain .
Paige said she wanted to find herself on this trip. It’s why she left. It’s why she left me . And while a very large part of me wants to continue talking and pursuing her as if my rationale is controlled by a throbbing extremity, I don’t want her to have any regrets.
Wondering why might be the most torturous part of being human.
So, as much as I want to strip down below the waist and relieve this building ache screaming at me, to tell Paige exactly how many times I’m going to jack off to this photo, I need to know why . I need to let the love I have for her speak louder than my desire.
Saving the photo, I quickly text her back. And by quickly, it’s likely been five minutes of writing and deleting everything I’ve tried to say. I finally end up with:
Me:
We need to talk about this.
She doesn’t respond right away. I imagine she and her new friend are together, preparing to go out tonight where anything could happen. Part of me believes she could wake up the next morning and hate me. Rational Rhodes laughs with a baritone sound like a haughty British man. It’s not true, but putting myself out there with Paige after all this time has had me on the outskirts of my control for weeks.
According to Amber, I’ve tipped, and I’m already drowning.
My heart jumps into my throat when my phone vibrates, and she responds.
Paige:
Did you not like it?
And cue the shit .
Me:
That’s not what I meant.
Me:
I love it.
I love you .
But I can’t unload that here. Not like this.
Me:
But I need to know what this means.
Paige:
It means, “Have a good night.”
There’s no way I won’t, but it still doesn’t answer my question.
Me:
I meant what does this mean for us?
She’s not as quick to respond, but when she does, I’m not sure if it should give me hope or not.
Paige:
Can I call you tomorrow morning?
Me:
Yeah, of course. Happy birthday, Paige.
She doesn’t respond regardless of how many minutes I let tick by waiting.
I scroll back to my photos and scratch at my jaw, warring with myself over what I should do and what I want to do. Instead of getting off the couch to get my laptop and do some more video editing, maybe order myself dinner, I’m toying with the idea of staying right here with this picture. She’s so sexy, I don’t even think she realizes. So many douchebags have lined up to be with her, likely only seeing her as this photo portrays.
But I see more.
There’s a small scar just above one of her ribs where she had a freak accident when she was twelve while rollerblading and fell on a stick. It cut through her flimsy tank and made her bleed. I was the one who procured a band-aid for her, delicately dabbing the wound with a wet paper towel and fanning it until it dried enough to put the bandage on.
Her fingernails are painted every color of the rainbow, a decision she likely made purely because she couldn’t decide which color to go with. So she chose them all. She’s also wearing the braided gold ring her parents got her for high school graduation on her middle finger, the same place it’s always lived.
All of these things make up Paige, the woman I love. The one who is as sexy on the inside as the outside, which is why I’m going to try really hard to wait until tomorrow to do anything about this picture.
I don’t want to start with any regrets.
I don’t want to be like the others.
Maybe we should wait until we’re in person again before exploring so much of our physical relationship. This time of her being away means something; I don’t want to rush that process for her or me.
Turning off my screen, I stand and pocket my phone, guarding her vulnerability. I have to adjust myself, the uncomfortable bulge in my jeans making it near impossible to stay committed to the cause of talking to Paige before I degrade that picture with every last bit of lust I have in my body.
I think I need a therapist.
But for tonight, I make myself a cup of tea, letting the peppermint sting my senses while I open to a blank page in my journal and write Dear Paige at the top.