Page 7 of Sexting the Silverfox

How cold is it over there? he asks.

We were talking about strawberries and whipped cream a second ago, I shoot back, my thumbs moving remarkably fast across the onscreen keyboard.

I am warm and getting warmer under my blanket, feet burning in woolen socks. I think about undressing, but that’s not a good idea. It’s the arousal that’s messing with my senses, and the last thing I need is to catch a chill.

Jason’s mind is even dirtier than mine, though I am genuinely fascinated with the way in which he stimulates me, physically and mentally.

True, but the thought of you naked reminded me of your heating issue. Are you naked? Jason replies.

My face feels red-hot, and I’m squealing like a horny teenager as I read the words aloud. Mr. Winchester, how dare you ask me such questions?

You wanted me to bend you over my desk last night. I didn’t think you’d be such a prude the next day, comes the reply.

He’s got a point. We’ve been at it for the past couple of hours. Every serious topic we try to broach inevitably goes back to that list of things I want him to do to me, but his persistence is ridiculously sexy because he always drops the bomb when I least expect it.

Even now, he manages to completely disarm me without being anywhere close to me. This man’s magnetism goes way beyond his physical presence.

It shouldn’t feel this good. I don’t really know who he is, aside from what I’ve retrieved from a couple of different online search engines. Former Army, divorced, single dad, billionaire, invested a lot in hedge funds and crypto, then started buying up properties all over Chicago, renovating and flipping them for insane amounts of money. “Jason Winchester Turns a Profit Whenever He Blinks” was the title of a finance magazine article.

I know more about him than he does about me, however. I am always careful about my past and what information I give out. There are moments when I still look over my shoulder, but I haven’t had any reason to worry thus far. It’s been two years, and they haven’t found me. I just hope they’ve given up and understand that I wanted it that way.

I’m not a prude. I just think there should be limits, I text Jason, trying to get my bearings while actively ignoring the arousal pooling between my legs. Besides, I’m dressed beyond any man’s ability to undress me at this point.

That sounds like a challenge.

No, sir. It’s just cold enough to warrant three to four layers of clothing, I write back.

He goes quiet. I’m not sure if I like it. Maybe he’s busy. He’s got a kid, after all. A life.

Eventually, the TV captures my attention.

I lose track of time before the next message comes in.

So, tell me what you’re wearing then, Jason writes.

I double over laughing, damn near dropping the phone again, but I manage to regain my composure and text him back.

That is such a cliché! Is this how you get girls these days? Does that even work?

No, I am genuinely curious to know what clothes you’ve got on. You said it’s still freezing cold at your place.

You’ll need a strategy and a lot of patience to undress me; let’s leave it at that.

Not good enough. What are you wearing, Audrey?

Is he serious? I won’t know unless I play his game. I shouldn’t, but my fingers are already itching. Jason is surprisingly good at obliterating my inhibitions. Granted, I am a bit inexperienced, and given my strict upbringing, every single word that I’ve written to this man could easily qualify as a capital sin.

My ears burn hot with an enticing mixture of shame and arousal. I don’t really know what to do, but the only thing that makes sense is to reply to his message and follow his lead.

This is going somewhere, and judging by the knot in my throat, I might end up liking it, maybe a little too much.

A fluffy pink bathrobe I got myself as a present last Christmas. A Lakers hoodie and a set of pink and white flannel pajamas, the kind you’d wear at a ski chalet in the Alps, huddled around the fire with a hot chocolate in hand.

Marshmallows included?

It’s not hot chocolate without marshmallows.

What else?

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