Page 42 of The Confidant

It’s a picture of the hotel bathroom. The angle of the shot takes in both the shower stall and the foggy mirror. Poe is in the shower with his hands in his wet hair. I can see the smooth strength of his back and his butt. His strong legs. The curtain isn’t pulled to cover anything. He’s facing away from the camera. The mirror has his front reflected with frustrating fog covering everything I want to see. The colors of his tattoo are smudged through the moisture. The only thing not shrouded in fog through the mirror is his face. He’s staring right at me with such a hungry look that I can feel it.

Oh, I want to do something back, but what?

I’m surrounded by ridiculous stuffed animals. My bed isn’t made. I’m not a damn professional photographer. Crap.

I chew my lower lip as I stare at the picture until my screen goes black. My heart is racing as I open it again. I can’t even think up a witty response to the picture. He’s literally stunned me textless.

Another picture comes in while I’m frantically searching for something to put on. I’m not one for pretty lingerie, and it shows with every pair of pajamas I toss to the floor. I don’t think I can take another picture like that without spontaneous combustion.

Like a masochist, I open it anyway.

It’s a frontal shot of him propped up in bed with an arm behind his head. His hair is still wet and hanging over his forehead, taunting me to brush it back. If I weren’t over a thousand miles away, I’d do it now. He doesn’t have a shirt on, so I can see his tattoo clearly, along with his mouth-watering abs. His expression is still hungry as if he can see me looking at him. His lips are parted like he’s saying something to me.

I have a response this time.

Me: Why are you torturing me??????

A few seconds later, I get his response.

The camera angle has moved down, so I can see the sheet barely covering his erection. I’m either building him a monument or strangling him to death the next time I see him. My heart is racing at the sight of the tented blue sheet.

The phone beeps as a video comes through.

“Oh, you devil,” I choke out with a whine.

I settle back in bed, trying to catch my breath before I hit play.

The video picks up where the photo left off. I watch his hand trail over his stomach. Fingers dip under the sheet, leaving him covered as he grips his erection.

“You thought I wouldn’t break and call you back? I knew saying goodbye was going to be a lie, so I didn’t say it. I despise that word in association with you. Send me something, siren. I want to see you.”

The video stops, and I groan sadly. Him and his perfect words are going to kill me.

I’ve never done anything like this before. I have no idea what to send him. I don’t like the thought of pictures of me out where anyone can see. Then again, I doubt Poe wants that either. He’s trusting me with them, which is a nice stroke to my ego. Am I brave enough to return the favor?

I drop my phone and whip off my tank top. I take the same position he’s in, resting against a pile of pillows. I take a few pictures, cringing at the results. After some debate, I pick the one that looks the best, emphasizing my tattoos and my breasts plumped up enough to be seen but not really revealed because of my bra. I send it with a mortified groan. Even in the pictures, my face is on fire with a blush.

The picture I get back is a close-up of his sternum. There are still droplets of water there, waiting for me to wipe them away.

Poetry: More here.

I take off my bra and focus the camera on my tattoo. It begins under my collarbones, easily hidden under my normal shirts. The unfurled butterfly wings are made up of abstract swirls inside solid lines. The black effect on my pale skin is a dramatic backdrop for the blooming rose in the center. I chose a bright, eye-catching blue for the color to make it pop, with a few hints of darker blue and light pink throughout the wings. I squeeze my arms so my breasts keep the trailing ends of the wings hidden. I send the picture off without looking this time.

Poetry: You’re beautiful.

He sends me back a close-up of his tattoo. I sigh as I take in the familiar art, cupping his abs the same way I want to. If I were with him, I wouldn’t have any mercy right now. There’s no way I would let him walk out this time.

Me: I wish I was with you. I never should have let you leave.

A second later, I get another video.

The sound of his deep, rough breathing, paired with the sight of his hand moving below the sheet, has me biting my lip. When his fist reaches the tip, the sheet slides a little, giving me a glimpse of his erection with a bead of precum. He lets out a soft groan before the video stops.

I close my eyes, my core flooding with heat. My nipples are beaded and aching. My hand moves up to cup the flesh and squeeze as if it would help. His hands are bigger than mine but imagining them there has to be enough for now.

My fingers slip over my stomach and press over my clit outside my pants. The pressure is almost enough to have me cumming. I’m so ready for him that I can feel the damp spot on the fabric.

The sounds he was making echo in my head as I slip the button open on my jeans and shimmy them down. I’m too impatient to take them all the way off. My panties drag with them.

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