Page 44 of Wallflower
I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t think about that moment every night with my cock in my hand. Now I know Violet’s been thinking about it too, and my dick pulses against my sweats.
Me
You weren’t naked, Wallflower.
You okay? Having a good time?
I stare at the screen long after the backlight dims and pray there’s more to this conversation than one random text. She’s out with Daisy, who certainly knows how to have a good time,and Violet’s got the whole bar to entertain her, but she texted me. She wants to talk tome. It feels like winning the fucking lottery.
Wallflower
I’m having a fantastic time, but my feet hurt soooooo much… *sad face*
And I *was* naked! You saw my boobs! CHORD DAVENPORT SAW MY BOOBS!
I laugh in the darkness. Inebriated Violet is even more adorable than sober Violet.
Me
Too much dancing, eh? I guess there was nothing to worry about after all. You’re a natural.
Wallflower
Don’t change the subject, mister. Admit you saw me naked.
I hesitate, wondering how to play this.Fuck it.
Me
I’ll admit I saw you in a sexy blue thong.
The three dots of her reply fade in and out, and I tap out another message while I wait.
Me
And I’ll admit I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
The dots disappear, and so does my hard-on as I worry that I’ve gone too far, but then the phone vibrates with an incoming text, and her reply pops up on the screen.
Wallflower
I think about it too.
Can you come get me? Daisy is having fun, but I’ve had enough for one night.
I nearly break my stupid neck tripping out of my sweats, but in ninety seconds flat, I’m in jeans and a shirt and climbing behind the wheel of my truck.
I make it to The Slippery Tipple in less time than it should take me and throw the truck into one of the last available parking spaces. I rush through the overpacked lot, push open the bar’s wide timber door, and scour the crowd for Violet like I didn’t set eyes on her just six hours earlier.
She’s perched on a stool at the bar, alone and stunning, her long legs crossed at the knees, her dark curls wilder than when she left the house and a hundred times sexier. So damn sexy I stop where I am just to drink in the sight of her.
There’s an appealing flush in her cheeks, but it’s a warm, damp kind of glow—the kind that comes from too much booze, too much dancing, and too many bodies in one room. It’s the kind that comes from exertion and depletion and gratification, and a vision of Violet swims through my head—she’s naked, sprawled in my sheets, hair mussed and wild, and looking exactly like this. It’s enough to keep my feet rooted to the floor in some kind ofstupor, and I’m mesmerized when she brings a tumbler to her mouth, her lips softly greeting the rim of the cup, until…
Oh, Jesus. She’s got a glass of Mona’s notorious white wine sangria, and that stuff is strong enough to strip paint. Violet’s texts suddenly make a lot more sense.
I’m already making my way over when a guy drops onto the stool next to her. He’s in dirty jeans and a dusty t-shirt, boots caked with mud and looking like he drove here directly from the farm.
He tilts sloppily in Violet’s direction. She leans away with a tight shake of her head, and it’s clear to anyone watching that she’s trying to rebuff the advances of some drunk asshole who can’t take a fucking hint. But when he takes it as an invitation to move closer, I see red.
