Page 2 of Wrong Number. Right Don.
Does that work for you?
My breath catches. Holy hell. Cockyandhot? My night just took a sharp turn for the better. Yet a cautious voice whispers that I shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t even know this man. But he’s leaps and bounds hotter than my runaway dinner date.
I step into my apartment, skin flushed and a familiar heat pooling between my thighs. It’s ridiculous that one sexy half of a face and chest is all it takes. Paired with his words and the sting of being ditched, I’m already buzzing.
You’re trouble, aren’t you?
Only the best kind, malyshka.
I quickly Google the word, and holy hell, the translation sends a flutter through my chest. I perch on the edge of my bed and squeeze my thighs together, desperate for a sliver of friction. I wonder if this stranger really could ruin me. I could desperately use a little ruining.
My fingers hover over the keyboard before I finally tap out the next text. I know it’ll only fan the flames. Without second-guessing, I hitsendand let out a little squeal as I stare at the screen.
I’m home.
I wait with staggered breath as I watch him type.
Good. Get comfortable. Your night deserves a happy ending.
He sends another picture of him winking at me. That single icy-blue eye spears straight to my core, and damn it, the top half of his face is every bit as hot as the lower. Heat pulses through me, my mind full of his smooth words and that lethal body.
I drop onto the bed, fingers tightening around my phone as I imagine him here with me. I imagine the weight of his body, the hard planes of his back, the heat of his breath at my neck—those blue eyes pinning me in place beneath him. A phantom grip cinches my waist, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.
I hesitate, biting my lip, but the pulsing ache between my thighs makes the decision for me. My free hand dips under the waistband of my panties, tracing a slow, teasing path lower.
You’re dangerous.
And you like it.
My breath hitches as I press my fingers against my aching heat, a moan slipping from my lips. I conjure the sound of his voice. It’s gravelly and commanding, murmuring in my ear, telling me exactly how he’d touch me, exactly how he’d ruin me.
I let the fantasy take over, hips arching into my own touch. My phone slides off the bed, forgotten, as I sink deeper into the sensation. In my mind, it’s the stranger’s hands trailing over my skin, his body pressing me into the mattress, his teeth grazing my throat.
I feel the phantom weight of him between my thighs, the scorch of his breath at my neck. His voice, dark and dripping with promise.
You like that, don’t you, malyshka?
A moan catches in my throat as my body tightens, starving for more. I plunge two fingers deep inside myself, breath tearing free as I chase the high building inside me. I can almost feel him, the rough scrape of his stubble against my skin, the commanding grip of his hands.
I use my own juices and swirl my finger over my clit until the climax crashes over me, a sharp, shattering pleasure unfurling in waves. I bite my lip, stifling my cry, thighs clenching as I ride it out.
When the aftershocks fade and my body relaxes against the sheets, a slow, satisfied sigh escapes me.
The moment my breathing steadies and reality seeps back in, embarrassment hits hard. I stare at my phone, pulse still thrumming from the high I just chased, and wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
I just got off to a man I’ve never even met. A faceless stranger with nothing but potentially misplaced confidence and a cocky choice of words.
So that was an accident. The text, I mean.
I should leave it at that. Close the chat, toss the phone on the nightstand, and crash. But I don’t. Instead, I keep my eyes glued to the screen, stomach tight with anticipation. His reply pops up a few seconds later.
No such thing as accidents, malyshka.
And just like that, the ache stirs all over again.
If I had meant to text you, I would’ve led with something classier.
So you’re saying you don’t normally send angry texts to strange men in the middle of the night?
