Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(33)

Being nice sucks.

I pull my phone out and text Vince. He’s been mostly MIA since his new relationship with Jackie, but there again, I’m trying to respect my best friend’s boundaries. I’m the one who stepped in when he stepped in it a few months back, so I like to think I’m as responsible for them being together as he is.

I send the text. A simple You and Jackie-O hanging out?

A return text reads Not tonight, she’s with her sister. Beer?

We only get beer at one establishment—save for that ill-advised foray to the sports bar For Puck’s Sake when, also, I was avoiding Grace—so the answer is no.

No. At home tonight.

Weird. You and Grace?

I stare at the screen for a few beats deciding how to answer. I go with the simple truth.

Over.

A few seconds later, Vince’s reply dings. Sorry, man.

Sorry man. That’s me.

I toss my cell on the couch cushion next to me and reach for the remote. I don’t want to watch TV. Maybe I’ll go to the gym. But I don’t feel like running into anyone at the gym. Especially of the female variety.

Fuck. This sucks.

Did I mention that already?

I’ve been scrolling through Netflix for about twenty minutes when my text tone sounds. I half expect Vince to tell me he’s in my driveway. Which wouldn’t be the worst news. I wouldn’t mind throwing back a few beers with him tonight. He could choose what to watch and end the turmoil of the bottomless browse.

The text on my phone is an eggplant emoji.

I do a double, then triple, take. It’s from Grace.

I pull my feet off the coffee table, holding my phone with both hands, my elbows resting on my knees.

She contacted me.

No. Not just contacted me. A wicked smile curves my mouth.

She sexted me.

What are you wearing? I text back. I flick off the television and lounge on the sofa. This is infinitely better than Netflix.

T-shirt, no bra. My fave pair of worn-out jeans.

My cock gives a happy jump. I love the way she looks in worn-out jeans.

I picture Grace, her red hair carelessly tussled, her bare feet poking out of her jeans, her nipples testing the confines of a loose T-shirt that has slipped off one shoulder. It’s a sexy picture.

She texts me back. You?

Baggy sweats. White tee.

No suit tonight?

Not tonight.

A bubble appears on my phone signifying that she’s responding. Then it vanishes. Then it reappears.

Vanishes again. Reappears.

Finally her text comes through.

I have no idea how to do this.

I smile, glad she has no idea how to do this. Glad I’m the first to steer her through the choppy waters of vanilla kinkery.

Right this way, Miss.

Without giving it too much thought, I press the phone icon and call her instead. On the third ring, I wonder if she’s at work and can’t talk, but on ring number four, she answers.

“Hi.”

“Hey, Gracie.”

“I was almost too embarrassed to answer.”

“I’m glad you did.” I’m grinning. God, I miss her. “I was sitting here picturing how sexy you look in worn jeans.”

“Your sweats-tee combo is doing it for me, I admit.” Her voice is a purr and I’m immensely glad I shifted our sexting to real live phone sex.

“Are you on your couch or on your bed?”

“On the bed. I was thumbing through Netflix but nothing good is on.”

“Tell me about it. I considered the zombie one, but I couldn’t commit.”

“I almost watched that too!” she exclaims. I hear her smile. A comfortable silence lingers.

“Jeans don’t make sense if you’re in bed, Gracie.” I dip my voice low and add, “Take them off.”

Silence stretches for a beat, then two, before she responds. “Okay.”

“Put me on speaker,” I instruct.

I hear the slide of fabric, the sound of a metallic clink on her wood floor—belt buckle, I’ll bet.

“Off,” she breathes.

“Describe your panties to me.”

“Um. Black.”

“Lace? Silk?”

“Cotton with white bows on each side.”

I groan. “I haven’t seen those yet.”

She chuckles. “Nope, not yet.”

I like the word “yet.” It implies I’ll have another chance to see her panties in the future. Future me punches the air in celebration. That’s a hell of a lot better situation than I thought we were in when I heated my subpar dinner this evening.

“Gracie, I want you to take your shirt off.”

Her voice is breathless when she says, “Okay.” A moment later, “Now what?”

“Lie back. Leave your panties on unless I instruct you otherwise.” Once she’s settled, she tells me she’s ready. My cock stiffens at the vision of her spread out over her quilt, almost naked, pert breasts standing at attention. “If I were there I’d slide my hands between your legs. I’m betting you’re wet for me, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you touch yourself for me, Gracie?”

“Yes.” Her affirmation is followed by a long moan. “Oh, that feels good.”