Chapter Eight
EIGHT
Blake was going to need a nap to recover from that food truck festival. What had begun as a nice excursion to socialize and get lunch had turned into a multi-hour eating fest, far more expensive than he’d planned and absolutely delicious. He collapsed down on the couch.
Maggie sagged onto the recliner. “That was amazing. I think I’m going to die.”
“Same.” He shook his head. “The waffles were a bad idea.”
“They were incredible.”
He winced, stomach gurgling. “Incredibly heavy. I need a nap.”
“That sounds good.” Maggie yawned. “Food coma.” She still looked cute, wearing jeans and a bright orange linen blouse that welcomed fall. He’d been distracted all afternoon by the way the neckline kept shifting and revealing her collarbones, something he’d never considered sexy before.
“You’re not expecting dinner, are you?” Blake winced. “Please tell me you’re not going to ask me for food or order food or do anything related to food.”
“God, no. I don’t think I’ll eat for a week.” She sighed, leaning her head back, long column of her neck exposed. “That’s a lie. I’ll be hungry by breakfast.”
Blake laughed. “I’m going to nap. No guarantees that I will wake up before tomorrow.”
Maggie stifled another yawn behind her hand. “That sounds good. Maybe I’ll join you.”
Join him. Blake’s brain momentarily short-circuited at the thought of Maggie climbing into bed with him.
She seemed to realize what she’d said, cheeks coloring and mouth opening into a small O shape.
They locked eyes, and he saw … something.
Interest, maybe? Her tongue darted out to brush her upper lip, a small movement that drew his eye, and he stared, mesmerized, until she laughed shakily and the tension broke.
“Not what I meant.” Her voice sounded louder than usual, and she got to her feet quickly. “I’m—I have laundry to do.”
Still off-kilter from that moment, Blake got up and went to his room.
The late afternoon breeze drifted in through the window, and he put Maggie from his mind as he stripped down to boxers and climbed between the crisp, fresh bedsheets.
Blake awoke slowly, then all at once, the pleasant pre-waking doze jolted away by confusion about where he was and what time it was.
Right. Nap. He sat up, sheets slipping to his hips, and blinked a few times.
His phone said it was after nine. More than a nap.
That was a pre-sleep sleep. He pulled on a T-shirt and some loose pajama pants, legs wobbly.
After a stop in the bathroom, he went to the kitchen for some water.
Maggie’s door was ajar, light streaming through the thin opening. He was actually hungry now, even though he’d sworn he wouldn’t be hungry again, and got a plate of cheese and crackers before settling down on the couch.
He returned a few messages: a couple of friends sharing memes; a note from Andrew asking him what he thought of Zane. They chatted for a while, Blake letting Andrew share all the niceties from his day. Then, right as he was wrapping up his chat with Andrew, another message popped up.
Whatcha doin?
Rose’s name and icon, a small purple rose, stared up at him from the screen, and his heart did a little skip. Hanging out, he replied. How about you?
I was hoping to play again. A second message came quickly after that one. If you’re interested.
Oh, he was interested. Plus, he was still somewhat hung up on that silly exchange with Maggie earlier, and playing with Rose would be a perfect way to put Maggie from his mind. I’m interested. Give me a few minutes. He scarfed down his snack, then returned to his bedroom and closed the door.
Last time had been incredible, a perfect synergy of his interests and hers, the kind of sexting that he replayed in his mind over and over again.
He’d relived all of it, imagining her hovering at the edge of climax, waiting for his command.
Not only was it the best of his kinky fantasies, but it had all been underpinned by her delightfully wry sense of humor.
She felt like someone he would enjoy getting a beer with, who didn’t take herself too seriously, who liked kink but didn’t make it her whole personality.
It was hard not to think they already had so much in common.
Andrew would tell him that he was projecting, and Blake would have to agree. But since they were only spinning fantasies together, what was the harm?
He stared at the phone for a few minutes. If this was going to be a regular occurrence—and he really hoped it was—they needed to talk first. I think we should set some expectations and ground rules, he wrote.
Seems smart.
What did you like about last time?
I liked the edging, she wrote. And not being in control. Little dots indicated she was typing again. Obviously I can stop whenever I want. I don’t have to do what you say.
It’s a mutual agreement, he typed, imagining her nodding.
I liked that I got to use the toys. And that you didn’t ask anything personal about me other than what I liked in bed.
He settled back against the pillows. He was warm, even though he hadn’t done anything yet.
Even though the room was cool, he pulled off his T-shirt and folded it neatly beside him.
You don’t want to share deep intimate secrets with me?
He followed it up with a winking emoji and imagined her rolling her eyes.
Only about how I like to be fucked, thanks.
No personal talk. Got it. That was probably easier. Let’s not make this mean more than it had to.
I don’t mind some personal talk, like how my day was. Small talk. Nothing bigger or deeper. She sent that all as one message, followed with Haha. Some things bigger and deeper are fine.
He smiled at the phone. What else? Do I get to know what you look like?
He desperately wanted to know. He consciously tried to vary his mental image of her—she could have rich mahogany skin, or olive with bronze undertones, or milk-white; she might have a blonde pixie cut or glossy black braids or loose red curls.
But each time he closed his eyes and saw her stretched out on her bed, she had dark hair that spilled over the pillow, peach-pink skin, a light dusting of freckles across her nose …
and he couldn’t shake that image of his roommate.
No pictures, she replied, which yeah, he understood. You can know I’m a brunette and I’m physically average.
Physically average. He grinned. You’re really selling me on the whole image.
You think this is a porn story? she typed. “I stared at myself in the mirror and pouted, looking at my ginormous perky breasts and my tiny waist and hourglass figure.”
Blake was chuckling actively now. I’ve read those stories.
At least your stories don’t come off like that.
He was proud of his writing. Thanks. I try not to fall into stereotypes.
And what about you? Are you going to tell me what you look like?
I’m also brown-haired and physically average.
What, not gonna say brunette?
Feels like that’s a gendered term, he typed. Is that sexist?
I don’t know, she replied. You wanna tell me how big your dick is? Please don’t send a photo.
He laughed again. Is that part of the fantasy? Getting railed by a giant dick the size of a zucchini?
Oh god, you’re killing the mood. No zucchinis. Hopefully she was also laughing.
Did you know they call it a courgette in England?
And in France, she added. It’s a French term. So yes, I did know that.
I think it’s a better term than zucchini. He folded a leg beneath him. I also like aubergine instead of eggplant.
I don’t want to be fucked with anything the size of .
Fair enough. He was enjoying the banter almost as much as what would probably come next. No . And you enjoyed the edging and being told what to do.
I liked the edging, she repeated. But I want to come every time we play.
Every time? Guaranteed? I thought not knowing was part of the fun.
Not when I have to function the next day. I lose my mind when I need to come.
That made him pause. She probably didn’t mean her words to be sexy, but gosh, they were.
He could imagine her begging and pleading, brought to the edge repeatedly until she’d do anything, hips arching up to his touch as he held her on the brink.
The idea made him hard, and he took a few deep breaths before returning to the conversation.
You sound pretty demanding, asking for orgasms every time without having to earn them.
I have to earn them? I don’t know about this. She sent him an emoji with a finger on its chin in thought. Isn’t it enough that I’m cute and I ask nicely?
Oh, I’m sure you’ll ask nicely. He licked his lips. I like keeping you guessing. Like last time, wasn’t it fun not being sure if you would have time to come?
Yes, but in practicality, I’m the one who has to live with the consequences. The fantasy doesn’t go on forever.
She was right, of course. Eventually, they would put their phones aside and return to their real lives. OK. But I’m going to still tease you about not letting you come.
I’d expect that you would, she replied.
What else? he asked.
Nothing that interferes with my work. If you want to give me homework or something, it can’t affect my job. And I have a roommate, so nothing to put me at risk of getting caught.
That was very reasonable, and he said so. He never liked to blur the lines between work and fun, especially since he worked from home and had to delineate those lines very carefully himself.
What about you? she asked. Do you have ground rules?
He had ground rules when playing in person, but online, most of those concerns were irrelevant. Still, something nagged at him.
I want to be able to trust you.
A long pause. About what? she replied.
In general, he clarified. I don’t want you to lie to me. I won’t ask you any identifying information, but when I do ask you something, I want the truth. Or you can tell me you don’t want to answer. But I don’t want you to lie to me.
She paused a long time. He’d have thought this would be an easy yes for her, and the length of time before her response could have been its own red flag.