IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(3)

My phone buzzed. It was from him.

212-555-0160: You going to press send or just keep typing and deleting?





I glanced up sharply, scanning the hotel room for hidden cameras.

Conor: How did you know?





212-555-0160: I’ve watched the three dots appearing and disappearing from my screen for the last half hour.





So much for coming across as sophisticated and worldly.

Conor: Oh.





212-555-0160: Sobriety have you second guessing?





Conor: No.





If anything, it was the opposite of that. I wanted it too much but didn’t know how to tell him that.

212-555-0160: Why the hesitation?





I squirmed. But then I figured why not be honest? It’s not like I had to see this guy again. I was already planning to avoid the hotel bar for the rest of my trip.

Conor: Would it surprise you to learn I’ve never done this before?





212-555-0160: You’ve never sexted before?





I felt my face flush.

Conor: Well, no, not really. But I meant I’ve never… uh… had someone tell me what to do.





212-555-0160: Ah. I see. Does it interest you?





I stared down at my throbbing cock. Really I should just send him another dick pic—it would be all the evidence he’d need. But the confidence I’d felt before with the fortification of a few drinks was gone, and sobriety had made me revert to my usual timidity.

I closed my eyes. Take the risk, I told myself. It wasn’t even that much of a risk—I’d never even given the bartender my name. This would just be anonymous sexting. A onetime thing—a way to blow off sexual frustration and try something new.

I blew out a breath.

Conor: Yes.





212-555-0160: Yes what?





I blushed as I typed out my answer.

Conor: Yes, giving up control does interest me.





212-555-0160: How far do you want to take this? Because if you truly want to give me control right now, the appropriate response is Yes, Sir.





I cringed. Already I’d screwed up.

Conor: Oh, right. Ok. Sorry.





There was a long pause where he said nothing, and I wondered if he’d changed his mind or I’d said something wrong. I skimmed back over the last few exchanges and realized my error.

Conor: I mean, yes, Sir.





212-555-0160: Better. Are you naked?





The question made me dizzy as even more blood rushed south. I glanced down at myself. I’d shucked off my jeans and underwear earlier but still wore my shirt.

Conor: Mostly.





212-555-0160: Take everything off and get on the bed. Do it now.





My dick stood up straight and eager like the proudest soldier in the battalion. I guess someone liked being bossed around.

Conor: Yes, Sir.





Sending the text caused the muscles in my abdomen to flex with desire. My fingers flew over the buttons of my shirt as I yanked it off and tossed it into the corner. I lay in the center of the king-sized bed like an offering.

Conor: Done.





212-555-0160: Prove it.





Oh god. Precum slithered out of my tip and down the underside of my cock. I squeezed my eyes closed and took a calming breath before holding the phone on my chest and opening the camera app. The shot managed to get my sternum down to my navel, my ridiculously interested cock, and the hairy muscles of my thighs before ending on my bare feet. The first pic I took had the corner of my discarded underwear in it. Not sexy. So I flicked them off the bed and tried again.

Better.

I sent it over.

212-555-0160: Stroke your cock. Imagine it’s my hand tightening around you.





More whimpering noises from somewhere. Someone in this hotel room sure was desperate.

I was about to type out yes sir when I had another idea.

Conor: Send me a pic of your hand so I know what I’m supposed to be imagining.





212-555-0160: I don’t think you understand who gets to make the rules here.





I cringed, wondering if I’d broken some sort of unwritten rule. It wasn’t like I had a lot of experience with this. I didn’t like the idea of disappointing him and was about to type out an apology when he texted again.

212-555-0160: But since this is new to you, I will accommodate you.





A picture flashed on my screen. It was of the stranger’s hand, resting on something solid and wooden, probably the bar. I’d never spent much time imagining another man’s hand, I’d just never considered it to be the sexiest part of a man’s body. But this man’s hands… I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed them earlier down at the bar. They were glorious. With long fingers that looked lean and strong and a wide palm that narrowed to a bare wrist dusted with dark hair. His shirt was rolled up, the white edge of one cuff just visible at the edge, the muscles of his forearm straining underneath.