Page 73 of That Moment
Scotty:Because you want to be rewarded with my giant cock later. Be good and I’ll give you every thick inch, splitting that pussy wide open again until you’re begging me to stop.
Heat slams low in my belly, a sweet ache pooling fast. I press my thighs together under the table and take a too-big sip of wine.
“Who’s making you blush?” Brooklyn sings.
“No one.” I pocket the phone. It buzzes again anyway, persistent as a heartbeat. I cave.
Me:Stop it.
Scotty:You’re wet just reading it, aren't you? Squeezing those cream thighs together in that short little dress?
I swallow. He’s not wrong. The bar hums around me, glasses clink, a couple kisses in the corner, and all I can see is his mouth on my skin and the way he sounds when he pushes inside me.
Me:You have an ego problem.
Scotty:And you have a lack of my cock inside you problem. Be a good girl and come by after.
The room tilts and I close my eyes for a brief, wine-warm second. I should shut it down. I should toss the phone in my bag and pretend I never saw any of it. Instead, courage made of tequila and whatever wine I’ve been downing makes me say what I really want to say to him.
Me:You know what I want, Scotty.
I stare at the words, stomach flipping. His reply is quick.
Scotty:Say it.
I can almost hear his voice. Rough, low, teasing.
I type. Delete. Type again.
Me:I want more than dirty texts.
Me:But tonight I want to dance and forget you for five minutes.
I hit send before I can chicken out, then set the phone facedown like it might bite me. My heart rattles against my ribs. If he pushes, I’ll cave. I know myself too well.
“Okay.” I plaster on a smile and grab Amelia’s hand. “Dance floor. Now. Before I decide wine is dinner.”
We flood the floor with a dozen other women who look like they also needed a night where nobody calls them Mom or a booty call. The music slides into something with a bass line that sits in my chest. We move. We laugh. We shout the chorus to a song we haven’t heard in ten years, and it feels like we’re twenty again.
My phone buzzes one more time in my clutch. I don’t look. I let the beat take it, let sweat gather at my hairline, let Dolly spin me like we’re at a wedding and the DJ is on his last song.
A guy finds his way into our orbit. He’s tall and fit with a clean jawline and manicured hands. The usual kind of guy I’d go for. He smiles like he knows he’s attractive, like he knows catnip to a woman like me.
“You all are having the most fun in here,” he says, amused, eyes warm, hands up like he comes in peace.
“Obviously,” Brooklyn answers for us.
He looks at me when the next song starts, tips his head toward the center. “Can I steal you for this one?”
The old me would check her phone. The new me, the tonight me, slides into the moment.
“Sure,” I say, sliding my hand into his and following him.
He keeps his hands light against my back, like he doesn’t want to move too fast. We move closer when the floor swells. I letmyself laugh. I let my hair stick to my neck. I don’t think about a complicated mechanic with a mouth that makes me want to abandon every logical thing I know.
“You’re trouble,” he says, smiling like it’s a compliment.
“Only on Saturdays.” I joke.
