The pictures that George had sent her were crudely artistic and erotic. He didn’t have an eye for composition, but seeing herself wantonly displayed aroused her more than it should have. He had taken the pictures on his phone, and while the quality was fine, she worried about who else might see them—even if she was fairly certain no one, not even close friends and past lovers, would recognize her.
And when she thought about the strangers who might see her, Fia’s p***y was suddenly wet again.
What was wrong with her?
Fia didn’t know how to reply to the text George had sent.
> *You’re beautiful. There’s someone I need you to meet tonight.*
It wasn’t a question or a demand. Just a statement.
Did she want to keep playing this game?
Feeling the tight silver choker around her neck, Fia
