Page 6 of So Wrong It Must Be Right

I’d tell you to bend over the bed, and I’d make you wait, your ass in the air, so I could really appreciate your entire backside. So I could think about all the things I’m going to do to you. So I could torture myself while I’m torturing you, because you don’t know what to expect.

Dinah’s breath went heavy. Damn, he was so good at this. She might not know what he looked like, but she could see it all. Feel it all. Unfolding in front of her like a dream.

And then I’d smack my palm against your ass.

She groaned into the silence of her apartment. She’d never given much thought to spanking, but just the idea, the fantasy of it, had her rolling her tights off, pulling off her shirt. Instead of shimmying out of her skirt, she just inched it up around her waist.

She was wet. Her nippleswerehard, and as much as she wished for this to be real, it was real enough.

You’d be so wet. I’d just slide my finger over the outside of your panties and I could feel it. How much you want me. And then, I think you’d beg.

I would. I’d beg. I’d beg you to fuck me. Hard and rough with that big cock. I’d say I’d do anything for it.

It always amazed her, the words she wrote. Such half-finished fantasies she never allowed herself in reality. But here? Here she could beg and plead for whatever she wanted.

Anything. That’s a lot of power to hand over to someone. I’d slide your panties down your legs, slowly, making sure every inch of each hand was always touching your skin. You’d feel each callus, each rough bump and scrape along those smooth, pale legs of yours. Once I got the panties to your ankles, I’d kiss my way back up. Calf, the back of your knee, thigh. What do you want, baby? My mouth or my cock?

Cock. Please. Hurry.Because she’d cheated a little and already slid her finger across her sex, sliding it back and forth, enjoying those first few jolts of utter arousal. But now she wanted more than jolts. She wanted everything.

I’d settle the head of my cock right at your pussy, but I’d make you wait. I’m not pushing inside until you beg.

Please. Please. I need you inside me.Which was frighteningly true, but she’d deal with that fear of need some other time.

I’d thrust, as deep as I can go, and I’d settle myself right there until you begged again.

It wasn’t hard to pretend. She used her fingers exactly as he said he’d use his cock. When she wasn’t typing, she circled her nipples with her fingertips. The excitement grew, her breathing growing heavier with eachplease fuck me hardershe tapped out.

Are you pretending your fingers are my cock, sliding into you? Fast and hard, just what you asked for.

Yes, yes. I’m going to come. Fucking my fingers. Thinking of you.

Make yourself come, baby. Pretend it’s me making you come.

It didn’t take much more. She was an expert on getting herself off at this point. The wave of pleasure, release from all that manic tension, swept through her. As the climax fizzled out, she all but melted on the couch.

Relaxed. Satisfied. Mostly, anyway.

And then I’d make you crawl under the covers, and I’d get you a glass of wine, and you’d tell me about your day.

Why wasn’t this real?

At first, she’d never had those thoughts. Of course, at first it was just sexmailing. Something about the last few weeks had morphed it into . . . more. Like the glass of wine and talking about what’s wrong—even if she didn’t respond, the offer was there.

She held her breath and counted to ten. She was not going to suggest they meet because that would ruin everything. What they’d just done was the only thing she wanted.

So, why didn’t she feel better? Sure, a little satisfied, but mainly she was just as angry at Craig as she had been, and she felt just as powerless. Just as restless and frustrated.

Good night, C. Thanks.She hit send and rested her head back on the couch, looking up at the plain apartment ceiling. Nothing was going the way she’d planned. Work. Love life. At twenty-seven she was supposed to be farther along.

So why was she stuck?

Well, screw being stuck. She needed to grab the reins of her spiraling-off-course life.

She poked around on the Internet for a while, idly flipping through Tumblr. Looking for inspiration, a spark of an idea. She followed a few fashion people, a few foodies, and then C’s page.

She stopped at his latest post, felt a weird wave of unease settle over her.

The image of the front yard of Front Yard Farm had stuck with her all day. The arches, the rows of plants. The redbrick pathways. It was all so damn familiar, and not because it was situated next to Gallagher’s Tap Room. She never went that way. She’d never stopped to ponder Front Yard Farm.

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