Page 97 of Unlocked Dive
Me: Isn’t he married?
Echo: Something like that.
Echo: His husband is hot too.
Little shit. Two can play at that game.
Me: So is his wife.
Echo: Gross.
Echo: Are you awake?
Me: I am now. What’s going on?
His schedule and the time change between Tilburg and California mean a lot more of our texts go hours between answers these days, but I still sleep with my phone on his pillow and jolt awake at the first vibration. Even in sleep, even eight thousand miles away, my heart is attuned to him.
Echo: We have a day off for some administrative bullshit, and the gym is closed. I need something to do with myself.
Me: Don’t you have friends?
I know he has friends. I spend half of every day trying not to be envious of the time they get to spend with him.
Echo: Fuck off. It’s 10 a.m. Everyone’s still sleeping off their hangovers.
Me: Except you?
Echo: I came home early.
That shouldn’t make me as happy as it does, but I can’t help the smile that breaks across my face.
Me: So you’re not hungover?
Echo: I’m horny.
My sleep-addled brain is no match for the images the message conjures, and one hand drifts to my dick as the other taps out an instant response.
Me: Show me.
The picture comes through half a second later, like he was anticipating the request. Tangled sheets in morning shadow, Echo’s long fingers wrapped around the arc of his erection, one toned thigh displayed in the background.
Fuck. Me.
I’ve been so good, so careful, trying to give him his space. Walking the treacherous tightrope of his flirtation without letting myself consume his fledgling life. But my thumb finds the video call icon without any direction from my rational brain, and after a single ring, I’m looking at his face, haloed in the light of a sun half a world away and soimmediate,my breath stalls in my chest.
“Hi.”
His voice is husky with sleep, and he’s cut his hair again. The blue tips are gone, only raven strands falling across his forehead to kiss the dark wings of his brows.
“No fair,” he pouts. “I can barely see you.”
He’s so fucking beautiful, it hurts.
“Turn your camera around.” Before I break down completely.
“Turn your light on.”
“Turn your camera around, Echo.” This time, it’s a command rather than a plea. He huffs, half-pained, half-amused, and the image of his hand idly stroking his silken cock rips a growl from my throat.
