I curl my fingers into his shoulders. “No, you don’t understand. I can’t—my babysitter is a high schooler. She has to go home pretty soon.” I pull back to look up at him. “I want to go somewhere with you, Ryder. I really do.”
He growls, pulling away. “I’m not calling you a cocktease, but dammit woman, you really know how to turn a guy on and leave him hanging.”
I glare at him. “That’s not fair. I really do want this as much as you do. I just have other responsibilities that have to come first.”
He sighs, turning away, passing his hand through his messy tangle of red hair. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…every time we’re together, I leave like this.”
I follow him toward his truck. “Like what?”
He laughs, a sharp bark. “Like this,” he growls, gesturing at his zipper. “Hard as a fucking rock and no way to relieve it.”
“Till you get home, you mean,” I say, smirking.
Ryder’s eyebrow arches. “You think I…what? Go home and jerk off thinking about you?”
“Don’t you?”
His lips curl in a wicked grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yes, I would, actually.”
He sidles over to me, and I stand my ground, staring back up at him, the challenge clear in my eyes. “No, Laurel. I do not go home and jerk off while thinking about you.”
“Why not? I thought that’s what all guys did.”
He frowns. “Because that feels degrading and disrespectful, to me. I’d feel gross about myself for using you like that, so I just suffer the blue balls.”
I laugh, a soft huff. “I hate that answer.”
“Why?”
“Because it turns me on, and I really do have to go.” I hesitate, and then stroke my fingers through his beard again. “What if I gave you permission?”
“I’ve never even seen you in a bathing suit, Laurel.”
I grin. “You’ll have to use your imagination, then.”
“Or…” he says, prompting me to follow it up with the logical question.
“Or what?”
He smirks. “You have my number, and you have a smartphone with a camera.”
I breathe a laugh of surprise. “You’re asking me to send nudes?”
He tugs on a lock of my hair as he backs away. “Just suggesting it as a possibility. Otherwise…” He keeps walking backward toward his truck. “I’ll just have to suffer until we can find a way to go somewhere together.”
I shake my head. “I’ve never taken a naked picture of myself in my life, much less sent one to anyone. You are crazy if you think I’m doing that.”
He shrugs, hands lifted palms up. “Worth a shot.”
I hesitate, and then call after him. “A week from tomorrow I’m taking Nate to Paul’s for a weekend visitation.” I let the silence burgeon with significance. “Which means I’ll have Friday night through Sunday afternoon free.”
He sighs. “I’ll probably die of blue balls before then.”
“That’s the best I can do, Ryder.”
“What time do you drop him off on Friday?”
“Five thirty.”
“Dinner—six fifteen. I’ll text you with a location Friday afternoon. Dress nice.”
I arch an eyebrow. “I always dress nicely, Ryder.”
He smirks. “Something with cleavage and a short hem, preferably.” He scans my outfit, which is work-appropriate, meaning business casual and modest. “Something sexy, just for me.”
“Any other demands?” I ask, laughing.
“Yeah, heels.” He pauses. “And if you won’t send me a nude, I wouldn’t mind a shot of you in your lingerie.”
“Don’t push your luck, bub,” I say. “You’re getting a date—nothing else is a sure thing.”
He smirks again. “The way you kissed me told a different story.”
I just shake my head. “Don’t be rude.”
“I’m not, I’m just saying,” he says with a laugh. “The way you kissed me just now…”
“I have to go,” is my only response.
I turn back to my car and slide behind the wheel, then watch as Ryder climbs up into his truck, which is a classic 1940s Chevy box truck—it’s been beautifully and lovingly restored, painted a deep, glossy forest green with Ryder Electrical in white lettering on the door, the box end is heavily customized, featuring chrome-handled, wood-paneled tool and equipment cabinets of varying sizes, with a rack for ladders across the top.
He waves at me as he pulls out of the parking lot.
I head home, pay Allyson, my babysitter, and spend a few minutes with Nate, talking about his day as we share a bowl of ice cream.
Once he’s in bed, I bustle around my small but cozy suburban home, tidying, picking up after Nate, vacuuming, doing dishes…
Pretty much anything to keep my mind busy.
Eventually, it’s nearly midnight and I know I have to go to bed.
Normally I sleep in a T-shirt and underwear, but for some reason today I decide on a full set of pajamas—button-down top and baggy drawstring bottoms, white with cute little kittens.
Not at all sexy.
I remove my makeup, brush out my hair, brush my teeth…
And then I glance at myself in the mirror. My hair is poofy from being brushed, my face is plain without makeup, and I have a dab of toothpaste foam at the corner of my lip.
Yeah, not sexy at all.
Which is why I’m at a loss as to what I’m thinking when I take a selfie in the bathroom, just like that, and send it to Ryder.
He replies immediately.
Ryder: Damn, girl, you make even kitty jammies look sexy!
I cackle out loud as I reply.
Me: Wow. Laying it on thick, huh?
Ryder: I mean, if you’d asked me thirty seconds ago if I thought kitty pajamas could be sexy, I’d have laughed at you. And then you send me this photo, and I realize how very wrong I would have been.
Me: I have toothpaste on my mouth and my hair looks like I stuck my finger in a socket.
Ryder: As a licensed electrician, I would highly recommend against ever actually doing that.
Me: Ha ha. No kidding.
Ryder: I’d send you a pic of me in my pajamas, but I’m not wearing any.
Me: Let me guess…you sleep naked.
Ryder’s response is a winking emoji.
And then my phone bloops again as another message comes in, and this time, it’s a photo.
Of Ryder.
In his bathroom, a toothbrush in his mouth, toothpaste dribbling down his chin, clutching a towel around his waist. It’s very evident he’s naked except for the towel. He has a smattering of reddish body hair on his chest and in a trail down the center of his stomach leading under the towel, which is held loose and low. He’s somewhere between having abs and a belly—there’s a hint of definition up near his diaphragm, but lower down near his hips he has an area that says he likes good food and beer more than he values visible abs. His arms rival my thighs for size, rippling with power and definition. His chest is equally massive—each pec is like an anvil, hard and thick and solid. He looks strong enough to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, but the twinkle in his eye and the grin tipping his toothpaste-foamed lips says he never takes himself that seriously.
The hint of a V angling from his hipbones taunts me, as does the hint of reddish hair just below his navel.
I have no idea how to reply.
Hubba hubba?
FML?
Heart-eyes emoji?
No reply?
I dab on some moisturizer and then stare at myself in the mirror, contemplating my reply.
I eye my phone, sitting beside the sink.
“Don’t do it, Laurel,” I tell myself.
Who am I kidding?
I unbutton the top button of my pajama top. Then the second and third—enough to show some cleavage. Then, suppressing a grin of disbelief at my own impulsiveness, I undo the bottom button
, and the next one up, and the next, until there’s only one button left buttoned—the one keeping my breasts from flying free, and that poor button is straining desperately to restrain me.
There’s no way I’d ever send him a photo of myself naked, or even totally topless, but maybe I could push the limits a little?
I slide the last button free of the buttonhole, and the weight of my breasts parts the edges of the shirt, and now I’m bare, to a degree. A wide slice of tan skin from my navel upward is visible, along with a generous amount of the inner swell of my boobs. I tug the bottoms down an inch, another, until my hip bones are visible—and then I tug a bit further, baring the V where my thighs crease against my core. Nothing is technically visible, entirely. But it is pretty sexy.
I grin at myself—not bad for a thirty-six-year-old single mother of a nine-year-old.
I snap a selfie, delete it, take another, adjust the edges of my top to make sure no nipple or areola is visible, and then take another—after about twenty deleted photographs, I find one I’m satisfied with, and send it before I can second-guess myself.
And then I wait on pins and needles for his reply.
Ryder: You DID give me permission, right?
I suck in a breath. Bite my lip. Try not to think about what he’d look like…
Me: I did…
Ryder: Good, because I’m not sure I can stop myself.
I gulp, set the phone down, and walk away. I make it three steps before I whirl back around and snatch my phone off the counter.
Me: I didn’t need to know that.
Ryder: No, but you wanted to.
A minute passes…two minutes.
Curiosity burns inside me, but I fight it.
And I lose.
Me: so…did you?
The little gray dots jump and dance, stop, start, vanish, and start jumping again, and I huff in aggravation. Eventually, a message pops up.
Ryder: You’re seriously asking me if I just masturbated to the pictures you sent?
Me: no
Me: yes. Maybe?
Ryder: What do you want the answer to be? Do you want me to tell you yes, I did? Do you want to hear that I thought about ripping those stupid fucking kitten pajamas off you and doing all sorts of dirty things you? Do you want to know that I made an awful goddamn mess of myself thinking about you?
Ryder: Or would you rather hear that I held out? That I couldn’t bring myself to do that even with permission?
I groan, because I don’t know what I want the answer to be.
I turn back to the mirror, letting my top stay open and my breasts bare, but I press my wrists against myself to cover the center of my breasts, and I send it.
Me: I want to know the truth.
Ryder: Yes, Laurel. I did.
I groan again, because this time, the thoughts that flashed through my mind were of Ryder, of those strong hands clutching himself, stroking, sliding, gliding, all while he moans my name and tries to imagine me naked.
I throw my phone across the room onto my bed before I do anything rash…like send him a photo that would have him coming to thoughts of me all over again.
All over.
Dammit. I couldn’t stop an image of Ryder, of the way he’d grunt and groan my name, the way he’d have laid a hot stripe of cum up his belly…
DAMMIT.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wasn’t supposed to want him like this. When I met him at that party, I had images of us going on sweet dates together—dancing, going to a movie, me eating his popcorn, kissing on the porch of my house.
And here I am, picturing him jerking off to thoughts of me, picturing him moaning my name and coming on his stomach.
Wishing, deep down, that it wasn’t just images in my head.
Ryder: Now who’s not answering texts? What’s the matter, Laurel? Cat got your tongue?
Me: I have to go to bed.
Ryder: I’ll let it go…for now.
Half a minute later, my phone dings again.
Ryder: You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Laurel. And if that’s all of you I ever get to see, I’ll be the luckiest man in the world for having seen it.
I swallow hard. He wasn’t supposed to make it sweet. He was supposed to leave it dirty and inappropriate, so I could tell myself all he wanted was sex. That all he cared about was getting me naked, or if not that, then at least seeing me naked.
Instead, he turned it sweet. And I couldn’t tell myself any lies to keep me on my high horse.
Me: You’re making this difficult, Ryder.
Ryder: Making what difficult?
Me: Not wanting you.
Ryder: Can’t help you there, babe. I conceded that fight back in the parking lot of Billy Bar. I want you. And I guess I’m willing to fight dirty to get you.
Me: Good night, Ryder. See you Friday.
Ryder: If I don’t see more of you before then…
Me, with an eye roll emoji: You wish.
Ryder: Absolutely. I wished you’d send me a peek of what was under those jammies, and I got that wish. Now I’m wishing I’ll get a peek at what’s behind those hands, what’s under those kitty pajama bottoms. Hoping this wish comes true, too…
Me: You’re impossible.
Ryder: You know it, and you know you like it.
Me: Good night.
Ryder sent a selfie of himself, obviously in bed. Smirking at the camera with tired, heavy-lidded eyes, brilliant red hair messier than ever.
Apparently that was his version of good night, because I didn’t reply and neither did he.
I fell asleep quickly, but my dreams were filled with Ryder, and by thrilling, naughty, erotic images of him touching himself, of me touching him…and of me helping him find the release he was throbbing for.
Chapter 4
4
* * *
The week passes by both too quickly and not quickly enough. My days are busy, but the meetings drag. Nate has basketball practice every day after school, which means I have two hours every afternoon to kill. I usually end up going home, doing laundry and housework…and texting with Ryder.
Friendly banter, mostly. There are no more pictures between us, risqué or otherwise. Every once in a while, one of us will make an innuendo. Mostly, though, it’s just friendly banter.
Easy.
Fun.
He asks about Nate, and I send him a photo of Nate making a layup at the end of practice. I ask about work, and he sends me a photo of himself with a screwdriver in his teeth, surrounded by a rat’s nest of multicolored wires and cords and frayed copper ends.
I dread the coming of the weekend, and I also can’t wait.
I dread it because Paul gets Nate every other weekend, and I worry incessantly—Paul’s extreme mood swings and unpredictability never resulted in any court action that would revoke visitation privileges. While Nate is at Paul’s apartment I don’t get much sleep for forty-eight hours, and I spend most of the time panicking, fraught with anxiety. Paul does love Nate; I can’t and won’t take that away from him. They have fun together, and Nate rarely comes back upset or off-kilter…no more than any nine-year-old in a fractured family, at least.
I think.
I’m also looking forward to this weekend, because I’ll get to see Ryder.
Thursday finally arrives and Nate and I have dinner and I hear all about a new friend he made at school. Once dinner is over, we clear up and Nate watches an hour of TV while I read, and then he’s off to bed.
It’s quiet.
Normally, this is one of my favorite parts of the day, when the house is quiet and I can do whatever I want. Which, usually, just means taking off my pants and bra, having a snack, and bingeing on Netflix in my room.
Lately, though, my mind has been wandering.
I get as far as taking off my pants and bra, and then some stupid, impetuous, horny little voice inside me starts whispering for me to send Ryder another risqué selfie. I ignored the voice all week and focuse
d on other things: a docuseries I’ve been meaning to watch; emptying out the fridge, cleaning it, and throwing away moldy leftovers and expired condiments; sorting my clothes and organizing them by season and color, and getting rid of stuff I haven’t worn in at least a year; deep cleaning the baseboards; scrubbing around the base of the toilets because Nate’s aim is perpetually terrible.
Tonight, though, I can’t think of a single project to distract myself.
I could dust, and go underneath everything instead of around like I usually do. Or I could polish my collection of leather boots. Or…um…
I groan out loud, flopping backward onto my bed, phone clutched in my hand, telling myself NOT to text Ryder a picture of my boobs.
It’s stupid. It’s immature. It’s indecent.
But sexy and thrilling…
I’m a mother.
But not a nun…
It’d be giving something away when I should make him work for it…
Except it’s just a photograph…
He might share it with the guys, or post it online.
No way would Ryder do something like that…
My phone chirps just then.
Ryder: WYD?
Me: What does that mean?
Ryder: What you doing. I learned it from one of the apprentices at the job I’m contracting for.
Me: You don’t work for James?
Ryder: I do, yes. He’s my primary employer. But he doesn’t always have work for me, so I take jobs as an independent contractor to fill in the gaps.
Ryder: So. WYD?
Me: Fighting with myself.
Ryder: LOL. About what, and who’s winning?
Me: I probably shouldn’t tell you.
Ryder, with a smirking, mischievous, emoji: Oh, really? Well, in that case, you HAVE to tell me.
I groan again. Don’t.
Laurel…don’t. DO NOT.
Me: it was kinda fun sending you those pix the other night. I was…um…thinking about sending another one.
Ryder: I think that’s a fucking fantastic idea. Are you wearing the kitty jammies again?
I look down at myself—pink knee-high socks with sloths holding a beer stein, and the top I’d worn to work, sans bra; the top was a basic white silk button-down, and I had it unbuttoned quite a ways down.
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