Page 88 of Imperfect Player

Ethan: Just glad you’re okay.

Me: How are you?

Ethan: I’m Ethan Ambrose. I’m perfect.

Me: My apologies. How could I forget?

Ethan: Apology accepted. What are you up to?

Me: Lying in bed reading your texts.

A wide-eyed emoji comes through, and I realize how massively I put my foot in my mouth. The way the words read I can only imagine where his mind would go.

Me: Not like that.

Not that I don’t think about him like that in bed. How can I not? The man has taken residence in my head—and my dreams, sexual and otherwise.

Ethan: It’s okay, sunshine. You can think about me in bed all you want.

Me: Oh, really? LOL.

Ethan: Yep. You can touch yourself too.

Me: Didn’t we do this last night?

My phone rings in my hand and startles me.

It’s Ethan.

“Hey,” I say into the receiver.

“Hey, sunshine.” His voice is even, unaffected, but I swear I hear a slur of his s’s when he speaks.

“Sorry for not getting back to you sooner,” I tell him.

“Don’t deflect.”

“Deflect what?”

“What we’re about to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, since we already sexted, I thought we could try phone sex. You still in bed?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Very unsexy pajamas,” I say with an uneasy giggle.

He’s gearing for phone sex. Something I’ve never done before, and I’m not quite sure I’m capable of. Texts are one thing, but this?

“On you, I bet they’re still sexy. Do me a favor . . . take your top off.”

“Just my top?”

“Just your top.”

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