Page 78 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

The position is awkward, but it shows off the lean muscle in my thighs. A viewer’s eye chases straight from the straps of my heels, up the back of my legs, and zeroes in on the black rectangle surrounded by skin.

The one hand holding the phone contrasts starkly with my fingers wrapped mid-thigh with nails digging into my skin. The thong strap cutting north above the phone makes it clear that the fabric beneath barely covers anything. The short skirt sticks into the air and creates a background for the curve of my ass.

I don’t take naked pics. The closest I ever get is a cleavage shot for a tease. All of the pictures I’ve exchanged with Mason have been fake.

Well, they were from the internet. So, still fake but believable.

There’s beauty in the image, though. The woman in the photo is confident. She pursues what she wants and only goes as far as she’s comfortable. She bares it all while still leaving the functional equivalent of a censor bar.

Also, she’s fucking hot.

I desperately want to be her.

Sprawled out on Mason’s bed, I stare at the image and reread the text chain with Brad too many times.

I’m just not ready.

His words pace circles in my mind.

The salacious picture urges me to make use of it.

I want to send it. It’s fucking hot.

I shouldn’t.

It’s definitely going to send the wrong message.

It’s obviously me.

If my face had been visible in any way, I’d never have even saved it in my camera roll.

I send it anyway. The swoop is irreversible.

For a solid thirty seconds, I lie there and fret that I’ve fucked up the whole scheme.

The trill of the phone startles me out of my spiraling so severely I physically jump. I hit the “accept” button without checking the screen, but I know who it is.

“Fuck, Izzy. I nearly crashed my car,” Mason says on the other end.

“If you don’t like it, then delete it.”

“It’s my new wallpaper.”

“Mason, don’t you fucking dare!”

“Home screen, not lock screen. No one can see your gorgeous ass but me. And maybe the guys when I’m feeling vindictive. Are you still in my room?”

“In your bed, actually.”

He groans. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Faster than ten minutes. Don’t move.”

Chuckling, I reply, “I have to get ready to go to dinner with Jolie.”

“Are you saying it wasn’t an invitation? Because the blue balls from this will cause permanent damage.”

I tsk at him. “It’s not my fault when you have performance issues.”

“I’ve never had performance issues or complaints. In nine minutes, I’ll be there to prove it to you.”

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