Page 32 of Shut Up and Score
Because shy boys? They’re always the ones who break the hardest. And I want to be the one who makes him snap. I blink at the screen.
GoldenSpiral23: Not to kill the mood or anything, but...You are a real person, right? Like... not secretly someone’s dad messing with me?
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. Oh, baby boy’s nervous. Probably flushed. Probably regretting sending that chest pic already.
I stretch one arm above my head and glance at my side reflection in the window. Messy curls, still damp from my third shower of the day. Chest bare, except for the tats snaking along my left side. Sweatpants slung low. Hard as a fucking rock and tenting my sweats.
Ilooklike trouble. And that’s the exact energy I want to send back.
GoldenSpiral23: Just. You know. Maybe a quick pic back? Chest + date + time = proof you’re not catfishing me from a golf course?
Agolf course?
I’m still grinning as I tug open my drawer, grab a sticky note, and scribble the date and time across it in sharp, jagged print. I hold it to my chest, snap a quick pic—no filter, all confidence—and attach it.
Click. Send.
Then I add:
Me: Real enough for you, sweetheart?
I watch the “delivered” mark appear and lean back against the pillows, lazy satisfaction curling through me.
He asked for proof. Let’s see how much further he wants to go.
NINE
COLTON
My phone buzzes again,and I glance down expecting… I don’t know. A brush-off? A delay? A joke, maybe?
Not this.
I sit up straighter on the edge of my bed, mouth going dry.
It’s a photo—clear as day. No filter. No hiding. Just smooth skin, a sharp collarbone, and a sticky note pressed against a broad, inked chest.
My heart stutters.
Hot as fuck.
I swallow hard and stare at it longer than I probably should. My brain spins, trying to find something clever to say. Something flirty but not desperate. Something that doesn’t scream,hi I’m a walking mistake, and you just ruined my ability to breathe.
I failspectacularly.
Me: Okay so… That’s unfair. You’re hot as fuck, and now I’ve forgotten how to type. This feels like a trap. A very sexy, no-escape kind of trap.
I hit send before I can overthink it. Then I drop my head into my hand and groan into my palm. God, it’s not as if I’ve never sexted in my life.
But maybe that’s the thing. I haven’t. Not really. Not like this.
Not with a guy. And I have to say, I’m curious.
SmokeScreen77: You’re cute when you’re flustered. Bet you’re even cuter when you moan my name.
My stomach flips again.
I stare at the screen, throat dry, heart hammering, and my palms clammy.
