Page 17 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
A minute passes…two minutes.
Curiosity burns inside me, but I fight it.
And I lose.
Me: so…did you?
The little gray dots jump and dance, stop, start, vanish, and start jumping again, and I huff in aggravation. Eventually, a message pops up.
Ryder: You’re seriously asking me if I just masturbated to the pictures you sent?
Me: no
Me: yes. Maybe?
Ryder: What do you want the answer to be? Do you want me to tell you yes, I did? Do you want to hear that I thought about ripping those stupid fucking kitten pajamas off you and doing all sorts of dirty things you? Do you want to know that I made an awful goddamn mess of myself thinking about you?
Ryder: Or would you rather hear that I held out? That I couldn’t bring myself to do that even with permission?
I groan, because I don’t know what I want the answer to be.
I turn back to the mirror, letting my top stay open and my breasts bare, but I press my wrists against myself to cover the center of my breasts, and I send it.
Me: I want to know the truth.
Ryder: Yes, Laurel. I did.
I groan again, because this time, the thoughts that flashed through my mind were of Ryder, of those strong hands clutching himself, stroking, sliding, gliding, all while he moans my name and tries to imagine me naked.
I throw my phone across the room onto my bed before I do anything rash…like send him a photo that would have him coming to thoughts of me all over again.
All over.
Dammit. I couldn’t stop an image of Ryder, of the way he’d grunt and groan my name, the way he’d have laid a hot stripe of cum up his belly…
DAMMIT.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wasn’t supposed to want him like this. When I met him at that party, I had images of us going on sweet dates together—dancing, going to a movie, me eating his popcorn, kissing on the porch of my house.
And here I am, picturing him jerking off to thoughts of me, picturing him moaning my name and coming on his stomach.
Wishing, deep down, that it wasn’t just images in my head.
Ryder: Now who’s not answering texts? What’s the matter, Laurel? Cat got your tongue?
Me: I have to go to bed.
Ryder: I’ll let it go…for now.
Half a minute later, my phone dings again.
Ryder: You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Laurel. And if that’s all of you I ever get to see, I’ll be the luckiest man in the world for having seen it.
I swallow hard. He wasn’t supposed to make it sweet. He was supposed to leave it dirty and inappropriate, so I could tell myself all he wanted was sex. That all he cared about was getting me naked, or if not that, then at least seeing me naked.
Instead, he turned it sweet. And I couldn’t tell myself any lies to keep me on my high horse.
Me: You’re making this difficult, Ryder.
Ryder: Making what difficult?
Me: Not wanting you.
Ryder: Can’t help you there, babe. I conceded that fight back in the parking lot of Billy Bar. I want you. And I guess I’m willing to fight dirty to get you.
Me: Good night, Ryder. See you Friday.
Ryder: If I don’t see more of you before then…
Me, with an eye roll emoji: You wish.
Ryder: Absolutely. I wished you’d send me a peek of what was under those jammies, and I got that wish. Now I’m wishing I’ll get a peek at what’s behind those hands, what’s under those kitty pajama bottoms. Hoping this wish comes true, too…
Me: You’re impossible.
Ryder: You know it, and you know you like it.
Me: Good night.
Ryder sent a selfie of himself, obviously in bed. Smirking at the camera with tired, heavy-lidded eyes, brilliant red hair messier than ever.
Apparently that was his version of good night, because I didn’t reply and neither did he.
I fell asleep quickly, but my dreams were filled with Ryder, and by thrilling, naughty, erotic images of him touching himself, of me touching him…and of me helping him find the release he was throbbing for.
Chapter 4
4
* * *
The week passes by both too quickly and not quickly enough. My days are busy, but the meetings drag. Nate has basketball practice every day after school, which means I have two hours every afternoon to kill. I usually end up going home, doing laundry and housework…and texting with Ryder.
Friendly banter, mostly. There are no more pictures between us, risqué or otherwise. Every once in a while, one of us will make an innuendo. Mostly, though, it’s just friendly banter.
Easy.
Fun.
He asks about Nate, and I send him a photo of Nate making a layup at the end of practice. I ask about work, and he sends me a photo of himself with a screwdriver in his teeth, surrounded by a rat’s nest of multicolored wires and cords and frayed copper ends.
