Page 157 of The Coach

Hit send.

The response isinstant.

Jackson: Jesus Christ.

A few moments later come another text.

Jackson: I need you so fucking bad.

Me: Yeah? What would you do if you were here right now?

Jackson: Oh, baby. You sure you wanna know?

A shiver runs down my spine.

Me: Tell me.

Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then reappear.

Jackson: I’d start by laying you down. Spreading you out. Taking my time kissing every single inch of that pretty body.

I squeeze my thighs together, my breath hitching.

Jackson: Then I’d have you ride my face until you’re so fucking wrecked you can’t even think straight. Then I’d flip you over and fuck you until you’re crying my name.

Oh, my God.

I sink onto the bed, my skin buzzing.

Me: Fuck, Jackson.

Jackson: You wet for me, baby?

I whimper, my hand drifting between my thighs.

Me: I’m soaked.

My phone starts ringing.

FaceTime.

I hesitate for half a second before I answer.

And there he is.

Jackson, shirtless, sprawled out on his bed, lookingwreckedwith need. His eyes dark and ravenous, his lips parted slightly.

“Show me,” he rasps.

My breath stutters.

“What?”

He grips his phone tighter. “Show me how wet you are for me.”

A rush of heat floods me.

Slowly, I shift, tilting the camera just enough to let him see.

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