Page 65 of Bride on the Dotted Line

I know.

Seeing you in my shirt …

Are you still wearing it?

Obviously, Mr. Harwood.

I stare at my phone, every inch of my skin blazing. After a decade of on-and-off singleness, sexting is second nature—but this is more than sexting. It’sconfessing.It’s personal, and heartfelt, and so fucking dirty, and I know the relief it gives Nick to tell me this, because I feel it, too.

I type my next message and press send before I can talk myself out of it.

Sienna

Want to see?

His reply pops up milliseconds later.

Nick

Obviously, Ms. Hayes.

If you want to show me.

Eager nerves course through me. I push my blankets to my waist and reach to flick on my bedside lamp.

It’s not the greatest light, but I can work with it.

My shorts fall to the floor beside the bed, leaving me in my plain cotton panties. I haven’t done this in months, not since I met my most recent ex. Centering the camera just right, I half-cover myself with my blanket so just a peek of the white waistband of my panties is visible. Then I take the photo below my chin, making his t-shirt—and the impression of my nipples through the gray fabric—the emphasis of the photo.

I press send.

Sienna

No shorts this time.

Thedeliveredreceipt pops up under the photo. While I wait for him to reply, I tap on the picture to look closer, assessing it for composition, the way Lena and I used to do for each other’s thirst traps in college.

In truth, I’ve never thought twice about whether a picture I’ve taken is hot. Ifeelhot. That’s all that matters. But maybe I should have been better posed. A lacy thong instead of the panties. Or the collar of his shirt pulled down, exposing one of my shoulders. Nick probably receives a hundred lewds a day on social media from women far better at taking pictures than me.

I stifle a stunned laugh, dropping my phone on the blankets to my side. I can hear Lena’s voice in my head already.You sent a blurry, amateur lewd to Nick Harwood? This man is mutuals with every supermodel with a professional camera on the planet, girl. He’s used to Dior and Gucci in 4K. He won’t be …

My phone buzzes on the bed beside me. I ignore it, shaking my head at myself for a few seconds more, but then it keeps buzzing.

And keeps buzzing.

I pick it up with numb fingers. Nick’s name is across the top of the screen, above a reddeclineand a greenacceptbutton.

He’s calling me.

Nick Harwood is calling me from the other room.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

“Hello?” I say into my phone. It comes out quieter than I’d hoped. “Nick?”

“Sienna.”Oh my God.His voice is in tatters. It’s the vocal equivalent of the look he gave me after the kiss at our wedding: barely controlled lust, a cavernous want eating him from the inside. “Tell me to stop.”

My whole body is on fire. “No. I won’t.”

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