Page 66 of Poetry On Ice

I’ve spent the entire day trying not to think about it.

When I failed there, I spent a good long time trying my best to fight the idiotic, rampant urge to smile about it.

It’s fucking stupid, but it’s better than letting myself think about what he said to me before he went to sleep last night, that’s for damn sure.

It’s dark now. Night has drawn in, and I’m in my living room, trying not to think about hearts drawn on glass and words whispered in the dark. It’s late, I’m tired, and it’s getting harder and harder by the minute not to think about things.

To distract myself I trawl through his profile on TikTok, doing my best to judge him as much as I possibly can, and when even that stops working, I open the vault app and look at the pictures he sent me again. His face. His ass. His slutty waist and his pretty cock.

Damn, he’s hot.

Tiny countdown clocks beside both of the photographs let me know their time is almost up. They’regoing to expire and be deleted from the app in precisely eight minutes time.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

I flick through them again. Face. Ass. Face. Ass.

I warn myself strenuously not to do it. Don’t think I don’t. I know full well that if I do, the app will send him a notification. I know that. It’s plainly spelled out in their T&Cs. It’s just that I’m so fucking overwrought from lack of sleep and too much chocolate, too many morning kisses, and the fact it’s been more than ten hours since I’ve seen him.

Fifty-four seconds.

Face. Ass.

Thirty-one seconds.

Face. Ass. Face.

Seven seconds.

Three.

Two.

Holy fucking fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?

I look down at my phone and stare at the screenshot I just took in shock and dismay. I drop my head in my hand, pressing my face down so my eyebrows are tugged up and my eyes are pulled open. I need to see this. I deserve it wholeheartedly. I deserve it and more.

McGuire doesn’t keep me waiting long. I knew he wouldn’t. That’s not how he’s made. My phone pings and a message from him pops up. Of course he’s forwarded me the alert the vault app sent him informing him that I’m a perve who takes screenshots of pictures meant to be temporary. Pictures meant to disappear into the ether.

Aw, baby. That’s so sweet.

I cringe as hard as I possibly can and steady myself on the arm of my sofa before reading the next message.

Thought for sure you’d save the one of my ass.

Oof

I’m deeply ashamed. So ashamed I feel it in waves. Hot waves first, then cold ones that make me feel shaky.

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