I was curled on my couch in nothing but the old Harvard tee, the same gray one I’d worn when he messaged me twenty-four hours ago, when the phone buzzed against my bare thigh.
Unknown number:
Put me in your contacts, Kiera.
Name it whatever makes that pretty p***y clench, then send me proof you’re still dripping my c*m between your legs.
My hands shook slightly as I saved his contact, “J ” and added the spade emoji.
I spread my thighs on the couch, angled the phone, and took a close-up of swollen lips glistening, with his c*m still dripping out slowly on my inner thighs, fresh wetness already leaking at the thought of him.
Sent.
J :
Jesus f*****g Christ, you’ve been walking around all day like that?
Knowing I’m the one who left you dripping? Video call, now.
I want to see your fa
