Falling in Between, page 6
Shit. For some reason, I feel dirty, like Elijah knows I was looking at porn. Like it matters. I'm a grown woman. I'm allowed to view adult movies.
Elijah: Drinks on Friday?
Me: Just drinks? Not some kinky party?
Elijah: No kinky party. Yet. Just drinks to test the waters. I'll pick you up at a quarter to ten?
I hate committing. Hate it. I bite my lip while staring at the text. I know he sees I've read it—damn read receipts. The little bubbles start to tick across the screen.
Elijah: Stop avoiding.
“Such an ass,” I mumble, then type: Sure. I could back out if I wanted to.
Elijah: Try not to sound so excited.
My fingers freeze over the keys. Well, I can't SOUND any way over text, but how about: Can't wait. And I insert that little jazz hand emoji.
More bubbles pop up, followed by an eye roll emoji.
This man is impossible.
Elijah: I keep thinking about how your cheeks blush when you come. I also keep fantasizing about how sexy it would be to shove you face down on the hood of my car and fuck you from behind.
I swallow. It's just words—typed words—so I shouldn’t be sitting here in my NSYNC shirt, soaking my Hanes while fanning myself and clenching my thighs. Because I've never done this, that's why. And I realize I'm fucked.
Elijah: Don't make me wait until Friday to see you blush.
Oh God. I think this is the prelude to sexting. I type letters that don't make up full words. I'm that flustered; then there's another ping from my phone.
Elijah: Before you go to bed tonight, I want you to touch yourself and pretend it's my fingers, my lips, my tongue. And after you've come, send me a picture of your cheeks flushed and pink. Tell me how good it was.
Sexting wasn't even a thing when I was dating. The one time I took the advice I so often give my clients and tried to spice things up with Harold via a naughty picture, Harold texted back, scolding me for sending “vulgar” photos to him while he was at work.
I stare at Elijah's message, my heart pounding, my body fully reacting to his invitation. And then I panic. I am at a loss as to how to respond. Anything I type is going to sound stupid. Shit! Chewing on my lip, I decided to cash in on my “phone a friend” and dial Steph's number, because she's a Grade-A perv.
“The hangover didn't kill me. If you're concerned.”
“I need help!” I blurt, still staring at his text.
“Yes, as your best friend, I'm aware.”
“Steph! Seriously, Elijah just texted me—sexted me—whatever you call it and—”
Dirty excitement fills her voice. “Oh, read it to me.”
I place the call on speaker and swipe back to the message thread, reading over it in a hurry.
“So…do it,” she says, like it's a no-brainer. “But send him a dirty picture, and not one of just your face. Go a little past what he's asking. But not too dirty. Just a peek, you know?”
“No!” I huff. “I don't know. I'm in a pair of Hanes and an NSYNC tank top.”
“For fuck's sake. Don't send him a picture in that!”
Elijah: Too much?
“Oh, God. Tell me what to say back; it's been three minutes. He's going to think I'm a prude.”
She laughs. “You kind of are a prude.”
“Steph, I swear to God…”
“Okay, okay. Tell him…oh. Oh!” I hear her fingers snap over the line. “Tell him only if he begs.”
I quickly type out the response and press send without much thought. “Of course you would suggest something like that.”
Elijah: I don't beg. Ever, Demi.
“He said he doesn't beg. Of course.”
“Oh, he will, motherfucker. Tell him no picture then.”
So, I tell him no picture unless he begs.
Elijah: You're making me hard.
“All right, Steph. I've got to go.”
“Don't send that picture unless he grovels,” she says. “And change into something lacy. You're setting a precedent here.”
“Don't worry.” I hang up, staring at my phone.
Gnawing at my lip, I smile and type: Show me. I feel naughty and liberated and buzzed.
Another message comes through, a picture of his tattooed hand gripping a large, hard cock with a piercing through the tip. I take a breath. Suits and tattoos and piercings, oh my…
This is honestly the first time the word beautiful has come to mind while staring at a dick.
To many women, this sordid exchange may seem like nothing, but to me—the woman who never takes risks—this is akin to a shot of heroin. A rush. It breathes life back into me. I'm more turned on right now than I remember ever being in my life, and it feels good.
Elijah: I have a feeling you may be the first woman ever to hear me plead. Show me, Demi. Please…slip your fingers, one by one, into your pussy and come for me.
My heart pounds. My skin prickles with sensation. I can only imagine if I'm this excited over a simple text exchange, how worked up he could make me—did make me, will make me—in person.
Elijah: Please, tiger lily.
And there it is. A flash of a memory. One where Elijah has me pinned to the wall outside the hotel in Mexico, his nose trailing along the curve of my neck, his hand up my skirt, cupping me as I grind against him like a feral animal. He groaned, “Please, tiger lily…”
And then my mind draws another blank.
Elijah: One photo.
I want to send him a picture because it feels scandalous. It's like the thrill you get as a teenager when you sneak a swig of your daddy's liquor. Take a drag of a cigarette. You know it's not good for you, but you just have to try it. Elijah is definitely bad for me, but like all things that pose a threat, he's undeniably alluring.
I drop the phone to the couch, shimmy my underwear down my thighs, then, I touch myself. Lightly. So lightly—the way I would want him to. Slow strokes. Hesitant strokes, like he wants to take it all in.
A shiver works through me, and I realize I don't know how long it's been since I've touched myself, which is ridiculous.
My cell dings again. I glance at the lit screen, circling my clit as I read over his text.
Elijah: Are you touching yourself?
Me: Yes. Are you?
Elijah: God, yes.
My eyes drift shut, and I pretend it's his fingers inside me. I imagine he's fisting my hair, kissing my throat. Whispering how beautiful I am as he trails his tongue along the curve of my neck. Within seconds, I'm falling over that edge. My muscles grow tense then violently release with my orgasm. My pulse thrums. And while I know my face is still flushed, I grab my phone and hold it out at an angle, exhilarated at the rush when I snap the picture. My cheeks are red. My hard nipples evident through my worn boy-band tank, and my hand is covering just enough to give a peek of my bikini line.
I send the photo, smiling when I lay my head back on the arm of the couch.
Seconds later—ding.
Elijah: So sexy, Demi. Showing just enough to leave me hungry.
Elijah: Goodnight, gorgeous.
I exhale. Demi.
I feel awful for not telling him my real name, but there was no easy way to broach that topic. So, you know how you've thought my name was Demi…it's not. I'm juvenile and give out fake names to hot men I screw.
Now I just feel it's weird. I'm not good at awkward conversations. Actually, I'm the worst, so I'm just going to pretend this isn't an issue. Besides, it's only four dates—with a man who swears he fucks for a hobby. It's not like I'm going to fall for him over the course of a few days.
And there it is, my reason as to why playing with him for a moment is safe, because that whole love-at-first-sight mumbo-jumbo crap is absolute bullshit.
9
Chinese buffets are where you go if you want diarrhea.
I know. It's happened before.
Yet, it's hours before I'm supposed to go on another date with Elijah and here I am, the smell of greasy food and mop water permeating the air as I take a seat in a plastic booth at Mr. Chang's Chinese Buffet. There are only a handful of people in here; maybe the score of seventy-two from the Health Department has something to do with that.
Dani circles the food station several times, stopping in front of each item and tapping her finger against her phone screen. If I had to guess, she's checking the caloric content. Meanwhile, Steph's making a carb mountain of rice and lo mein.
With a sigh, I roll the alarmingly bright-orange piece of chicken around on the plate, wondering if maybe I've taken this too far. Earlier today, I contemplated downing a few tablespoons of expired milk of magnesia, and now I've moved on to consuming bacteria-infested Chinese take-out. I'd seriously rather tell the man I'm glued to the toilet than go on a date. But after a week of nasty messages, I'm terrified.
Over text, it's easy to make myself sound halfway seductive—thanks to Google, Throbbin Hood, and a few erotic books I picked up on Kindle Unlimited—but I’ll be lost tonight when the only option I have is word vomit or silence. I can guarantee, the minute that man says something along the lines of: ride my face, I'm going to have diarrhea of the mouth.
My phone buzzes on the table.
Elijah: Wear something sexy tonight.
I stare at the text, imagining all the ways this evening could crash and burn, scarring me for life.
Me: Oh, I'm not so sure. Let me think about it.
Elijah: Demi. We shook on a bet…
I shove my phone to the side when Steph finally plops down across from me. Rice spills onto the table, and she brushes it onto the floor. “I haven't been able to talk you into this place since it gave you food poisoning last year.”
“Yeah…”
Steph nods toward my plate. “I'm proud of you, facing your fears head-on like this. It's a big step for you.”
“Just trying to overcome my food aversions,” I say with an uneasy smile.
“What's she doing?” Steph motions her fork toward Dani who's still at the buffet. “She's not going to find anything that fits into her Keto diet here.”
Dani finally grabs a pair of tongs and drops a few things on her plate before sashaying over to us. She daintily takes a seat, then swishes her bouncy hair behind her shoulders. “I'm starving. I was held up in litigations all day.”
Steph twirls lo mein around her fork. “Your job sucks.”
Dani uses her chopsticks to pluck a piece of questionable sushi from her plate. “Your opinion doesn't count because you don't live in reality.”
I've always envied people who could use those things. I just end up flinging food on the floor.
“Hey.” Steph thumbs at her chest. “I live in reality.”
“You got laid off, and they gave you a more-than-generous severance package,” Dani says. “You haven't worked in nearly a year, Steph.”
“Um, did you forget? I'm writing a book.”
“A smut book.” Dani laughs, and I just keep scooting that piece of orange chicken around, distracted by thoughts of Elijah.
“Smut is fucking important! It saves marriages and shit.”
Dani snorts. “And shit…”
“You're an uptight twat.”
“Compliments will get you nowhere, Steph.” Dani snaps at me, and I glance up. “So where is the cartel man taking you for drinks tonight?”
Steph elbows Dani's ribs. “You can't just jump topics like that.”
“Fine.” Dani's eyes flutter. “I'm sorry I insinuated that your smut wasn't important.”
Steph flips her the bird, rolls her eyes, then directs her attention to me. “Where is he taking you for drinks?”
Finally, I bite the bullet and cram the rubbery piece of chicken—that's sure to give me stage-two shits—inside my mouth. They're both staring at me, so I point at my mouth which is now full of food.
Steph grabs a carrot from her plate and throws it at me. “You backed out, didn't you?”
Dani points her chopsticks at me with an accusing glare. “That's why you're eating buffet food. You want to get sick and call it off.”
“You conniving little cunt.”
Swallowing, I shake my head like a guilty child with chocolate all over its face. “No, I didn't.” I exhale. “I told him I'd think about it.”
A lone piece of lo mein dangles from Steph's lips. “You're an idiot. I swear, I'm going to get you a little badge that says ‘My Vagina's Public Enemy Number One’ or something. You can wear that proudly.”
Scowling at her, I kick under the booth at her leg. “You think you could say that a little louder?”
“I mean, I could—”
“Don't. You. Dare.”
“Don't tempt her,” Dani grumbles.
“Vagina is not a bad word.” Steph rolls her eyes again before stuffing half an eggroll into her mouth. “And poor El Chapo. You've been talking dirty to him all week, and then, when he tries to take you out, you basically tell him no. Bless him and his blue balls.”
Dani's phone rings. I welcome the interruption as she digs it out of her purse—although Steph's eyes are about to burn a hole right through my skull.
“Dammit, Bill.” Dani facepalms and groans. “He's a porn star. What do you expect?” With a huff, she throws her chopsticks down and shoves out of the booth. Covering the phone with her hand, she glances back at us and mouths, “I'll be back.” Then she storms off, chastising poor Bill.
“So.” I laugh nervously. “Did Dani tell you she's taking a case for some porn star named Throbbin Hood?” I put more chicken in my mouth.
Please God, let the porn star divert this conversation.
“You're a chicken shit,” Steph whispers in a mocking tone.
“Look, I didn't say no. I said I'd think about it.”
“Wow. Here I am, hustling for a little foreplay from some guy named Bob on HookUp, and you're turning down a guaranteed orgasm. Hell, tell him I'll have drinks with him. And I'll actually fuck him.”
“You're disgusting. You know that, right?”
She shrugs. “Go on the freaking date, Charlie. It's one night. What's the worst that could happen?”
“No, it's four dates.”
“What?”
“Long story,” I say. “Some dumb bet about making me…” Mr. Chang's is not the place to discuss what he thinks he can entice me into. “Sleep with him again.” Okay, that wasn't much better.
She stops chewing. Her brow wrinkles, which, thanks to her addiction to Botox, is a feat in and of itself. “Why wouldn't you?”
“The last sex I remember was with Missionary Style Harold. Having sex with him was like reading a manual. Spread your legs, play with your clit, and maybe, when the moon is full and it's winter solstice, come.”
“What does El Chapo's dick look like? Is that the problem? Does it resemble a backward banana or something? Is his cock all ganked up like 50-Cent's grill?”
A little gray-haired lady shuffles by with a plate, her disapproving look aimed straight at us. I want to shrink back in the booth.
“Really?” I whisper-shout. “Banana dick?”
“Yeah, I mean, you forgot Mexico, but with all that sexting I've been providing guidance on, he must have sent pictures. Is it small? Big? Does it lean a little to the left?” She waves her hand from side to side. “The right? Two pee holes?” She slams her palms over the table like a judge with a gavel, and I jump. “I mean, what's the holdup?”
I refuse to even acknowledge the two-urethra comment. “The holdup is that I've talked myself up too much.” I drag my palm down my face, sighing as I watch Dani strut back toward the table.
She slides into the seat, mumbling about how Bill is a pain in the ass. “Having a dildo company say Throbbin Hood's penis is seven inches, when, in fact, it is eight, is literally defamation of character. How Bill doesn't understand that is beyond me.”
Steph and I both stare at her, mouths open.
Dani grabs her chopsticks and looks up, deadpanning as she glances from me to Steph. “What? It is defamation.”
“I take it back.” Steph whacks Dani on the back. “Your job does not suck.” And now her attention is directed at me again. “So, Charlie here, is trying to back out of the date, because she thinks she's talked herself up too much.”
Dani blinks. “Talked yourself up too much? How?”
“Over sexts with El Chapo.”
“Oh…”
“His name's Elijah,” I correct.
“But…” Steph rests her chin on her hands, an expression so angelic crossing her face that I expect she'll be struck down by lightning at any moment. “I can only imagine coming from Charlie that it's tame. What did you promise the man? Doggy style, and now you're worried about him staring at your unbleached asshole?”
Dani glares at Steph. “Why are you so vulgar? Your mother was a nice woman.”
These are the people I have chosen to associate with. I’m not sure what that says about me.
“Look,” I say with a huff. “I told him I'd do a lot of things, and if he expects me to be a flexible seductress who's going to make his dick explode like some Fourth of July finale, he's going to be sadly mistaken.”
“I'm sure he's not expecting that,” Dani coos. “People say all kinds of kinky stuff via text.”
“Yep,” Steph adds. “They never follow through with it. Trust me. The best guys expect is the reverse cowboy and a little taint tickle.”
I shove a spoonful of rice into my mouth and slouch in the booth, annoyed at the entire situation. Elijah Banks, self-proclaimed fantasy fulfiller, will expect much, much more than a little taint tickle.
I want to see him. And I hate it.
My phone buzzes on the table, the screen lighting up with a text.
Elijah: I'm not one to take no for an answer, sweet Demi.
Against my better judgment, I send him my address and tell him I'll see him at nine.
10
I didn't finish the Chinese. Instead, I grabbed a sandwich from a deli on my way home to get ready, and now I'm standing in front of my mirror, convincing myself that I can do this. Whatever the hell it is that I'm about to do.
Drinks.
