Page 5 of So Wrong It Must Be Right

“We’ll see about that, mister.” Everyone had a point to fold, a concession to make with the right stakes. A guy like him had to see that growing things didn’t belong in the middle of city traffic and bustle. A guy like him had to see that the money they would offer could build him something bigger and better elsewhere.

She’d convince him. She’d find that concession, that point to fold, and she’d show Uncle Craig where he could shove his sabotage.

She flipped open her laptop, ready to do some more research on Carter Trask. But her email was up, her last email with C.

He’d written,I’d like to think we’d be the kind of people who wouldn’t get tired of each other. We could eat together, have sex, read, work, hand-in-hand, and never give up, never walk away. I’d like to think we could be those people, even if it’s just a fantasy.

He wrote like poetry. Sure, they traded elaborate sexual fantasies, but he ended each email or exchange with something kind and sweet. Something romantic, the further along this thing went. Fantasy, yes, that’s exactly what they had.

But, in the past eight months, though she still only knew the bare minimum about the details of his life, she felt like she knew him. Or at least the email version of him. She didn’t know if that was real, but she’d given him pieces of herself, her real self.

It was probably really warped, but he was comfort—without having to risk . . . well, anything. He couldn’t make her feel useless, or break her heart. He could, at most, disappear, and that would suck, but she wouldn’t lose anything except some invisible man on the other side of the keyboard.

She frowned at the thought of him disappearing. What would she do then when she was feeling restless and upset? Emailing with anyone else would seem wrong. As for going out and having some real sex, as Kayla had suggested, oddly enough the idea didn’t appeal. Not with C in her inbox.

“Oh, Dinah, you are one royal screwball,” she muttered to herself.

But this—C—he was all fantasy, so what did it matter how screwed up she was? Over life. Over this unorthodox emailing relationship thing. In their fantasy, itdidn’tmatter, and right now she needed it not to.

She hit reply.

What would you do if I came to your place in one of those trench coats and high heels, just like out of a movie. You invite me inside, I drop the jacket, and say, “I want you to fuck me.”

She stared at the words. It was the beauty of this situation. She could say all the things she was scared to say in real life. She’d never been able to bring herself to sayfuckduring sex before. Orcockor to beg for something harder or rougher. Anytime she had the inclination, embarrassment and fear of rejection had flooded her.

But here, with nothing but a computer screen glaring back at her, she could put all those fantasies into words. She was in charge and powerful and could ask—and get—whatever she wanted.

She hit send because she needed that right now, when everything felt completely out of her control. She needed to feel like something could go right, and if it meant a little fictional sex, well so be it. There were a lot worse ways to be a total wacko.

After only a few minutes, her email dinged.I’d tell you to get in the bedroom and sit on the edge of my bed.

Hallelujah. She switched over to the instant messaging program they’d been using lately, and C continued.

I’d take my time following you. I like to watch you walk. I’d even guess something was wrong, but you don’t want to talk about it, do you?

Talk? No. The only words she wanted were dirty ones. In fact, that’s exactly what she’d write.

She liked a lot of things about C. The descriptive way he wrote, the sweetness he could infuse into the dirtiest of scenarios, but mostly she liked that he was an incredibly fast typist because his responses didn’t take long.

I didn’t think so. So, I let you sit down, and then I’d tell you to take off your coat. And your shirt. And your skirt. Slip off your heels and your tights.

He knew what she’d be wearing; they’d talked about it often enough. Workday meant skirt and heels. Weekends meant jeans and tennis shoes. Saturday nights meant lingerie she’d made up at first, then bought . . . just because.

Thiswaspathetic, wasn’t it?

But she kept reading, because pathetic or not, his words were hot and she wanted to get off on them. The fantasy. Sex without worrying about anything. Not the other person. Not herself.

Tell me what your underwear looks like. In great detail.

Oh, she had some great detail for him.Today, it’s all black lace. My underwear is completely sheer, except for the black thread polka dots. My bra is the same. You can see my nipples. They’re already hard, just watching you watching me. I spread my legs, because that’s exactly where I want you.

Because you want to be fucked?

Yes. Hard. Nothing nice about it.

I can do that. First, I’d tell you to stand up. An order, like a teacher instructing a student. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If I told you exactly what I wanted you to do.

I’d do whatever you want.

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