Page 14 of Sexting the Don

I hurry over to my door, making sure it’s locked. Mom and Jimmy never bother me up here, but I want to be on the safe side. Once that’s done, I rush back to the bed and get under the covers, slipping off my panties and kicking them out of the way.

I roll my shoulders and get comfortable, spreading my legs and placing my hand on my belly. I close my eyes and slowly let my hand drift down over the hair above my pussy, then lower.

I’m warm between my thighs, more turned on than I’d realized. Images of Enzo form in my mind. I remember what he told me, that he’s hard for me.

The thought of him touching himself, of him being hard as stone at the thought of me, gives me the last push I need to move my hand to my pussy. A sigh escapes my mouth as I touch myself, spreading my lips open and placing my fingertip on my clit.

I lose myself deeper into the fantasy, imagining Enzo looking at those pictures of me, stroking himself, hard, animal grunts pushing out from the depths of his chest as he brings himself closer to coming.

Soon, I’m in a nice rhythm, making slow circles around my clit, the pleasure building and building.

Shit. I was supposed to text him when I was touching myself. But how the hell would I do both at the same time?

I take my hand away and text him.

I’m touching myself.

Good. Tell me how wet you are.

Really wet. Super wet.To make my point, I add a few water drop emojis.

Are you fingering yourself?

No, just touching.

Finger yourself.

Mr. Insistent.

I type my reply.

I’ve never actually done that before.

Are you serious?

Serious as can be.

There’s a pause. Then, the dots appear.

I want to ask you a personal question.

I hesitate, wondering what could be so personal at this stage.

Then it comes:Are you a virgin?

The question shocks me, and for a moment I'm not sure how to respond. Part of me wants to evade, to keep some mystery, but another part—the one swayed by the honesty of our conversation—opts for the truth.

Yes,I reply, my heart thumping a bit harder as I send the message.

Almost immediately, Enzo responds, his message cutting through any subtlety.

Send me your address.

I freeze, suddenly unsure if I'm ready for the implications.

I live in the apartment above my parents' detached garage, I type back, trying to add a layer of caution to it all.

He doesn’t back down. Instead, he demands more firmly,Your address, Mandy.

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