Page 6 of Starry Night Kisses

My phone buzzes with an incoming text from Eric.

Once again, we haven’t seen each other since he dropped me off. And although we’ve spent nearly every day texting back and forth, his absence is frustrating.

Even though I decided we can’t take whatever itis between us to a serious level, I feel a pull to him that I can’t explain.

I absentmindedly play with my necklace as I read his message.

If I have to go to one more dinner to schmooze the asses of men who have no idea what their own company does, I’m going to vomit.

A smile pulls at my lips as I sip my wine, setting my sketch pad on the coffee table and drawing my legs up to stretch out on the couch.

Order the most expensive steak on the menu and get dessert to go. It’s on the company dime, right? Better make it two desserts.

You’re positively diabolical.

How did you know I love dessert?

My heart skips a beat at the casual way he drops the L-word, even though we’re talking about food. Crossing one leg over the other, my knee-high fuzzy socks soft against my bare legs, I think about snapping a photo and sending it to him.

Maybe it’s the wine, or the fact that I’m wearing nothing but a pair of red, lacy, brief-style shorts with an oversized sweater—clothing that I feel sexy in. But I’m definitely feeling a type of way right now and feeling bold enough to do something about it.

Positioning my phone just right, I ensure the ambiance is perfectly set up in the frame of my screen. The soft glow of the fireplace, my white fuzzy socks, and my legs with the wineglass as the primary focus. Guys have a thing for bare thighs and knee-highs.

Before I can chicken out, I press send.

My dessert for tonight.

“No one said you can’t have a little fun, Evie,” I whisper to myself. “It’s not like it means anything.”

Eric’s reply is immediate, and I nearly choke on my wine when I read his message.

I see something else in that photo I’d rather be having for dessert.

Our texts to each other over the past two weeks have bordered on flirtatious, but we’ve never taken it this far. Sure, we’ve exchanged photos, but it’s usually of the dogs or of ourselves with the dogs.

My skin warms, that delicious dip of my stomach traveling between my legs, lighting up my lower body like a Christmas tree.

What else are you wearing?

“Fuck.” The word slips from my lips as my nipples harden into pebbles, straining against the redlace bralette beneath my sweater as though trying to reach for Eric through the phone.

Are we really doing this?

Unless that’s being too forward? I apologize if so.

A sting of disappointment lessens my arousal just a little. Sometimes, I wish Eric would stop being so nice and just take command. I have a feeling if he did, we’d both enjoy the fuck out of it.

If it can’t turn into something serious, though, do you really want to go down that road? Won’t it make things messy?

The wine decides to answer my inner conscience.

You’re adults. Stop tiptoeing around your feelings and just send him a damn sexy picture! Tomorrow’s Evie can deal with the consequences.

“Consequences be damned,” I mumble as I set my wine on the coffee table. Bagel picks his head up, his tail thumping against the edge of his bed, but I shake my head and tell him to stay as I head to my room, where there’s a full-length mirror.

Peeling my sweater over my head, I simultaneously release the band holding my hair up, then position the mirror where I can easily pose in front of it. A thrill rushes through me. It’s toasty and sets everything inside of me on fire as I sink to my knees. I fluff my hair and pinch my cheeks even though they're already flushed from the wine.

The lights that I have strung up over my bedglitter in the mirror’s reflection, adding an aesthetic appeal to the photo. My red undergarments stand out against the rich hardwood floor and my cream duvet.

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