Page 43 of Wildest Dreams

Rhyland: Forget the braids. Your hair will be in my fis

I erased the entire text message. What was I thinking? This couldn’t happen.

Dylan: Uh-huh. You typed then deleted. Dead giveaway you’re breaking.

It didn’t help that Dylan had the instincts of a panther and the bloodlust of a piranha. I stared at the screen and grinned like an idiot.

Dylan: The offer still stands.

Dylan: So is your cock, I’m willing to bet.

Dylan: No strings attached ofc.

Rhyland: I’m trying to do the right thing here for a change.

Dylan: Why? The wrong thing’s always more fun.

I brought my fist to my mouth, biting it to stifle a groan. Checked my watch. Ten minutes before the bar closed and Tucker was let off. Good. I needed a distraction.

Rhyland: I thought you hated me.

Dylan: I do. I’m also horny and single. And I heard enemies-to-lovers is the best trope for sex.

Rhyland: Wouldn’t know. Never felt anything for anyone I slept with.

Dylan: That’s low-key sad.

No. What was sad was that we weren’t having this conversation face-to-face so I could see her olive skin growing scarlet, her heavy eyelashes fanning her cheeks, and her chest rising and falling to the rhythm of her pulse.

Rhyland: Neither have you.

Dylan: Excuse me?

Rhyland: You’ve never slept with someone you love either, Cosmos. I know, because you told me you fucked Tucker on the day I acted like an ass toyou (sorry about that, by the way. What was I to do? Tell Row my cock had bested my mind and I’d decided to get a piece of his sister?). And I know for a fact you haven’t had anyone else since that asshole.

Rhyland: And you didn’t love Tucker. Everyone knew that. Even you. He was just a way to pass the time that got complicated when you got knocked up.

I stared at the screen for a few minutes. No answer. I’d touched a nerve. I decided to dig a little deeper.

Rhyland: Was he at least good in bed?

I was going to deserve the beating Row was destined to give me, no doubt. I’d just earned the first few punches, and I’d gladly take them if it meant prolonging this conversation a little. It was my version of “just the tip.”

Technically, we were just talking. No touching was involved. The dotted line danced on my screen, and I momentarily forgot to breathe and blink.

Dylan: He was actually surprisingly decent, which was why I stayed with him for so long.

Dylan: Gave GREAT head.

My stare grazed the man behind the bar, envisioning him eating her out. Suddenly, I didn’t want to rough him up a little; I wanted to dismember him into three-inch pieces and feed him to zoo animals.

Dylan: What about you? Who was your best?

Rhyland: I don’t think I’ve ever had a best. All my hookups were the same level of adequate.

Dylan: And they say romance is dead.

Rhyland: It is, though, Cosmos. Think about it. Everything that represents love—flowers, hearts, swans, doves—dies eventually.

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