IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(27)

Sucker punch right to the gut. How did this man seem to know exactly what I needed to hear? For the first time I wished I hadn’t lied about my name. Just so I could have seen it written out in that text.

I didn’t know how to respond. My instinct was to deflect. To tell him to give me time and I was sure I could come up with something.

Conor: Speaking of disappointment, you’d said earlier today that I might be able to do something to earn your name tonight (and I definitely spent half the day wondering what that might be). I’m sad I won’t have that opportunity. Unless you’re willing to reconsider?





Sexy Stranger: I’ll consider it. In the meantime, tell me about your mother. What’s your favorite thing about her?





The question surprised me, and it took me a while to figure out how to respond.

Conor: Why? I mean, don’t you have work in the morning?





Sexy Stranger: Yes. So?





Conor: I just assumed that since I can’t… I mean since we won’t be… you know. Doing the thing. That you’d want to go to bed





.

Sexy Stranger: Doing the thing? What thing would that be?





Conor: You know. Between us. Using… parts. Our parts. Down there parts.





Sexy Stranger: Yes, but I’d like to hear you say it.





I blushed. Forced myself to type out the words.

Conor: Sex. ting. Sexting. With our penises. I mean, not actually sexting with them, that would be difficult. Unless you had a pencil dick. Which you certainly do not. No way you could text with that thing.





I forced myself to stop rambling.

Sexy Stranger: Are you blushing right now, NotSam?





I growled under my breath. How in the world could this anonymous man know me so well?

Conor: How did you know?





Sexy Stranger: I take that as a yes. Good. I like making you blush. I look forward to doing it more often.





My cheeks blazed even hotter, and my heart pounded a little faster. More often meant he wanted more. It meant that he liked me. Perhaps as much as I was growing to like him.

Sexy Stranger: Now tell me a story, NotSam. I cleared my schedule to spend tonight with you and I still intend to do so. Even if we’re not doing the thing.





I stared at the words, my heart swelling. If he kept talking like this, I might grow to do more than just like him. I glanced at the clock. I had more meetings at Grange BioMed starting early in the morning, but now that James had taken over negotiations, I didn’t have to do much other than sit there as a visual representation of the Newell family.

I could easily afford to lose a few hours to my sexy stranger. I flipped through my mental Rolodex of embarrassing stories and landed on one guaranteed to make him howl with laughter. Then I started typing.





10





Wells





My finger hovered over the Send button. It was almost sunrise, and I’d been texting with Conor all night. My eyes burned, and my thumbs ached from pecking on the screen hour after hour. I didn’t want to stop, but I knew I had to. Both of us needed some sleep before starting the day.

I read through our last several texts.

Wells: Sweet dreams.





NotSam: They’ll be of you.





Wells: Except I’m not sweet.





NotSam: Except you are. You just don’t like to admit it.





I’d snorted at that. I’d been called many things in my life. Sweet wasn’t one of them.

Wells: We’ll see how you feel after tonight.





NotSam: Tonight?





Wells: 9pm. Be on your knees by the bed. Hard. Send me a picture holding yourself so I know you’re ready for me.





NotSam: Yes Sir.





Even rereading his response my eyes fluttered shut, and I almost groaned. If he knew what those two simple words did to me. How much it made my insides roar with satisfaction.

He’d then sent the sleep emoji—the little head with z’s drifting up from it. I’d typed up my own response but was hesitating. I hit the Send button before I could overthink it.

Wells: You can call me Trace.





It may not have been my real name, but it was what my mother had called me when I was little. I hadn’t realized until years later she’d actually been saying “tres,” the Spanish word for three since I was Wellington Grange the Third. Conor had more than earned the nickname tonight with his earnest honesty and willingness to share himself.

When he didn’t respond immediately, I felt a vague sense of disappointment, but it was only fleeting. That meant he was asleep, and he needed it. I took satisfaction in imagining him tucked in his hotel room, curled under the comforter, dreaming of me.

The only thing that would have made the fantasy better was if I was there with him, curled around him, pulling him against me.