IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(2)

212-555-0160: Hm, now that’s a compelling offer, sexy, but I don’t know you. And it’s late.





So weird. That hadn’t been a problem only an hour before. Even though my overwhelming feeling was relief he wouldn’t be knocking on my door anytime soon, I still felt like whining. Just messaging someone a dick pic had gotten me all hot and bothered.

Conor: But I want to get off.





That didn’t sound pathetic. Did it?

Conor: You don’t have to know me. Hell, you don’t even have to come to my room. Just tell me something sexy.





A part of my brain couldn’t believe the words coming out of my fingers. But sending the photo had made me feel bold—demanding in a way I’d never felt comfortable being when I was face-to-face with a man.

Conor: Tell me what you’d do to me if you were here.





My cheeks burned with a blush, and my breathing came faster. I watched the screen, but there was nothing. I felt an odd sense of disappointment coil in my chest.

Conor: Please?





I added the please out of… good manners. And not at all because I wanted to prod him into responding. It would be mortifying to put myself out there so thoroughly only to be rejected.

There was a pause. I held my breath, waiting.

212-555-0160: How badly do you want it?





I shuddered, my cock jumping at the words. I stared at the phone and heard a slight whimper from somewhere nearby.

Conor: So fucking badly.





Another pause and I found myself whispering please please please under my breath. Suddenly there was nothing more that I wanted than this. To hear what this man would do to me if he were here, standing at the end of the bed, me splayed naked in front of him.

212-555-0160: How many drinks did you have?





Why was he asking me that again?

Conor: Four? I think?





212-555-0160: Drink a glass of water and go to sleep. You said you have an important day ahead.





The bottom fell out of my stomach. Rejected.

Conor: My last drink was over an hour ago. I’m sober.





212-555-0160: That’s not what you said earlier.





Shit. He was right. But that had just been an excuse for sending the dick pic.

Conor: Sober enough for sexting.





212-555-0160: Baby, if I’m going to tell you what to do, I want you 100% focused on me and my instructions. No confusion or second guessing in the morning.





I let out a groan. God, the thought of him telling me what to do made me even harder. The tip of my cock glistened with precum. While a part of me appreciated that he didn’t want to take advantage of me, suddenly I wanted nothing more. It made me feel a little cheeky.

Conor: Maybe I’ll just take matters into my own hands then, and go to bed.





I smirked at my response.

His answer was immediate.

212-555-0160: No.





My eyes flared wide, my balls tightening. Before I could formulate a response, three dots appeared on the screen.

212-555-0160: In three hours you should be sober. If you’re still interested then, you may contact me and ask me politely if I will help you out with your little problem.





I barked out a laugh.

Conor: Demanding, aren’t you?





212-555-0160: Yes. You’d do best to keep that in mind if you decide to text me again. Good night.





I stared at my phone. My cock still throbbed in my hand. I tightened my fingers, sliding my fist down, the sexy bartender’s words swimming in my head. I stroked again, harder, wondering if I’d have the balls to reach out to him in three hours. Knowing I probably wouldn’t.

I arched my back against the bed, picturing the sexy bartender kneeling over me, telling me what to do. How to hold myself. How hard to stroke. How fast.

I could feel my climax coiling inside me, my body vibrating with the need for release.

Right as I was about to tip over the edge, my phone dinged, startling me.

212-555-0160: Oh, and no touching yourself. If you come tonight, it will be at my discretion.





My jaw dropped. The gall of this man! Before I even realized it, though, my body complied, fingers instantly releasing myself as though I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t. My cock strained, so close to coming. All it would take is another stroke, maybe two. But I couldn’t move. My hand remained still. My breath came fast, my entire body flushed, my balls tight and aching.

Just do it, I told myself. Come and pass out and be done with this. I had an important presentation in the morning; the last thing I needed was to stay up all night sexting a stranger.

Except my body refused to listen.

“Fuck,” I groaned. I rolled onto my stomach, shoving my face into my pillow and groaning in frustration. I may or may not have humped the mattress once before forcing myself to lie still. Then I reached for my phone and set my alarm.





Three hours later I was awake, hard, and entirely sober. I sat on the bed, cradling my phone in my hands, staring at the screen. I’d typed out a dozen different messages and deleted them all. I kept second-guessing myself. I wanted to sound interested but not desperate. Sexy but not pathetic. Maybe sophisticated, like this was something I’d done a million times before.