Chapter 7: The Picture and the Promise
The sunlight filtered through the cheap blinds in thin, watery stripes, painting lines of gold across the cluttered landscape of Miri's bedroom. She'd been staring at the same paragraph of her essay for forty-five minutes. The words blurred together, meaningless, a jumble of letters that refused to form coherent thoughts.
Her phone was warm in her hand.
She'd been holding it for so long that the screen had dimmed twice, and both times she'd tapped it back to life with a trembling thumb. The photo was still there, still open, still searing itself into the backs of her eyelids every time she blinked.
Leo, in black boxers, standing in front of a mirror.
His reflection caught both angles—the front of him, all those ridiculous muscles and that infuriating smirk, and the back, the curve of his spine, the way the boxers hugged his ass. He'd taken it that morning, probably right after he woke up, and sent it with a caption that made her stomach flip every time she read it: Thinking about you.
She'd been thinking about him too. Nonstop. Obsessively. In ways that made her face burn and her thighs clench and her breath come short and shallow.
The essay was due in three days. She hadn't written a single word.
Her laptop sat open on the bed beside her, the cursor blinking accusingly on an empty document. She'd intended to work. She'd made a cup of tea, organized her notes, opened the primary sources she needed. She'd done everything right.
And then she'd looked at the photo again.
Now she was flat on her back, her head propped against a pillow, her leggings pushed down to her knees, and her hand—her own hand, her fingers—was between her legs, moving in slow, uncertain circles.
She'd never done this before. Not like this. Not with a real image of a real man burning behind her eyes. Not with the memory of his voice in her ear, his fingers inside her, his hips grinding against hers until she shattered.
She was so wet. Embarrassingly wet. The kind of wet that soaked through her underwear and left a dark spot on her sheets. Her fingers slid easily, slick and warm, and every time she circled her clit she felt a jolt of electricity shoot up her spine.
That's my girl.
His voice echoed in her head. The way he'd said it, low and rough, right after she came apart in his arms. The way he'd looked at her—like she was something precious, something worth protecting.
She'd never felt like that before. Never.
Her breath hitched. Her hips bucked against her hand. She was close—so close—the pressure building in her core, coiling tight and hot and desperate.
She thought about his mouth. His tongue. The way he'd kissed her like he was starving for her.
She thought about his cock. The weight of it in her hand. The heat. The way it had felt sliding against her, not inside but almost, so close she could feel the head pressing against her entrance, teasing, promising.
She wanted it inside her. God, she wanted it so badly.
Her fingers moved faster. Her thighs trembled. She was right there, right on the edge, her mouth falling open on a silent moan—
The door swung open.
"Hey, Miri, I was thinking we could order—"
Chloe froze.
Miri's eyes flew open. Her hand yanked away from between her legs like she'd been burned. She grabbed the blanket and hauled it up to her chin, her face going so red she could feel the heat radiating off her skin.
"Chloe—"
"Oh my God." Chloe's voice was strangled. She spun around, facing the wall, her hands raised like she was surrendering. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I didn't—the door was unlocked—I should have knocked—"
"It's fine." Miri's voice came out as a squeak. "It's fine, I just—can you give me a second—"
"Absolutely. Yes. Taking a second. Taking all the seconds."
Chloe stood there, facing the wall, her shoulders shaking with what might have been laughter or mortification or both.
Miri scrambled to pull her leggings up, her fingers fumbling with the waistband, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest. She yanked the blanket down, smoothed her hair, and tried to arrange herself into some semblance of normalcy.
"You can turn around now," she said weakly.
Chloe turned. Her face was red too, but there was a grin fighting its way across her lips, and her eyes were bright with barely suppressed amusement.
"So," she said, drawing out the word. "You and Leo. Doing the deed?"
Miri buried her face in her pillow.
"I hate you," she mumbled into the fabric.
"No, you don't." Chloe crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing slightly. "Come on, spill. I just walked in on you—what, exactly? Because it looked like you were having a very good time."
Miri peeked out from behind the pillow. Her face was still burning, but there was a grin tugging at her lips too, fighting its way through the mortification.
"I was—" She swallowed. "I was thinking about him."
"Obviously." Chloe's grin widened. "What exactly were you thinking about?"
Miri hesitated. She'd never talked about this stuff before—not with anyone. She'd never had anything to talk about. But Chloe was looking at her with such open curiosity, such genuine interest, and the words were already building in her throat, desperate to be released.
"The locker room," she said quietly.
Chloe's eyebrows shot up. "The locker room?"
"After practice. Yesterday." Miri pulled the pillow into her lap, hugging it against her chest. "He—he pulled me inside. And then he—" She took a breath. "He stripped down to his boxers. And he pinned me against the wall."
Chloe's mouth fell open.
"And he—" Miri's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "He put his hand down my tights. Under my underwear. And he—he touched me. Until I—"
"Until you what?"
"Until I came." The word felt foreign on her tongue. "For the first time. Ever."
Chloe's jaw dropped.
"Wait. Wait wait wait." She held up a hand. "You're telling me that Leo Castellano, the Leo Castellano, fingered you to orgasm in the football locker room?"
Miri nodded, her cheeks flaming.
"And it was your first orgasm? Like, ever?"
"With someone else, yes."
"Oh my God." Chloe pressed a hand to her chest. "Oh my God, Miri. That's—that's—"
"There's more."
Chloe's eyes went wide. "More?"
Miri bit her lip. The memory was still so vivid, so visceral. She could feel the cold concrete against her back, the heat of his body against her front, the way his breath had hitched when she'd wrapped her fingers around him.
"He, um." She cleared her throat. "After I came. He—he took his boxers off. And I touched him. And then he—he rubbed against me. His—his bare—" She gestured vaguely downward. "Against my—you know. And we both—"
"Did you fuck?"
The question was blunt, direct, and Miri's face somehow managed to get even redder.
"No." She shook her head. "We didn't. He—he wanted to go slow. He said we didn't have to do anything I wasn't ready for."
Chloe let out a low whistle. "Okay, that's actually kind of sweet. For a guy who's supposedly a total player."
"He's not—" Miri started, then stopped. "I mean, he is. He has been. But he's also—he's kind. He's really kind."
"And you want to fuck him."
It wasn't a question.
Miri buried her face in the pillow again. "Yes," she mumbled. "So badly."
Chloe laughed, but it wasn't cruel. It was warm and knowing and a little bit envious.
"Well," she said, standing up. "I'll leave you to it. But next time, maybe lock the door?"
"There won't be a next time!"
"Uh-huh." Chloe was already at the door, her hand on the knob. "Sure there won't. Just like there won't be a next time with Leo, right?"
She winked and slipped out, pulling the door shut behind her.
Miri lay there for a long moment, her heart still racing, her body still humming with unspent tension. The interruption had killed the moment, but the ache was still there—deep and persistent and impossible to ignore.
She picked up her phone.
Leo's photo was still on the screen, his smirk still infuriating, his body still obscene. She stared at it for a long time, her thumb hovering over the screen.
Then she did something she'd never done before.
She sat up. She pushed the blanket away. She spread her legs, her knees falling apart, and she angled her phone between them.
The camera app opened with a soft click.
She could see herself on the screen—the dark curls between her legs, the slick, pink flesh beneath. She was glistening, literally glistening, the evidence of her arousal catching the light. Her hand trembled as she adjusted the angle, trying to capture it all, trying to show him exactly what he did to her.
She took the picture.
Her thumb hovered over the send button. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. This was insane. This was reckless. This was completely, utterly, absolutely not something Miranda Hayes would ever do.
She sent it.
The caption took her even longer to type. Her fingers kept slipping on the screen, her hands so shaky she had to delete and retype three times. But finally, it was done.
I want you. Now.
She hit send before she could chicken out.
For a long, agonizing moment, nothing happened. The message sat there, marked as delivered, and Miri's stomach twisted itself into knots. What if he didn't respond? What if he thought she was pathetic? What if he'd changed his mind, decided she was too much work, too awkward, too—
Her phone buzzed.
She nearly dropped it.
My place. Frat house. 20 minutes. Don't wear panties.
Her breath caught.
I'm on my way, she typed, her fingers flying across the screen.
She threw the phone onto the bed and scrambled off the mattress, her legs still shaky. She tore through her closet, looking for something—anything—that would work. She couldn't wear what she had on. She needed something that would make him look at her the way he had in the locker room, like she was something worth wanting.
She settled on a dress. The one she'd bought on a whim last summer and never had the courage to wear. It was dark blue, soft, with a neckline that dipped just low enough to be interesting. It fell to mid-thigh, and when she looked in the mirror, she hardly recognized herself.
She looked—pretty. She looked like someone who could walk into a frat house and demand to be fucked.
Her phone buzzed again.
Hurry up. I'm already hard just thinking about it.
She grabbed her keys, shoved her feet into her sneakers, and ran.