Chapter 2: The Early Return
The flat hummed as she packed away the living room, her pulse still quick with the night's exchange. Then the ping came, sharp and bright, and she carried the phone to bed, already smiling at the glow of his name.
"Why reverse cowgirl?"
The question sat on the screen, deceptively simple. She settled into the bed, pulling the duvet up around her shoulders, the phone held close to her face like a confessional. The flat was dark now, the curtains drawn thin over the city lights, and Jamie was hours away, asleep in a childhood bedroom that had never seen her.
"You'll think it's silly," she typed.
"I think everything about you is interesting. Silly or otherwise. Tell me."
She chewed the inside of her cheek, considering. The truth was tangled up in things she didn't fully understand herself; the desire to be watched, to feel the weight of a gaze on her while she moved, to be the centre of someone's attention without having to meet their eyes. That last part she kept to herself.
"I like the control," she typed. "The angle. The way you can set the pace. And you're looking at the best view in the room."
"That's a modest answer."
"I'm a modest woman."
"Modest and evasive. A dangerous combination."
"Isn't evasiveness part of the charm? Keeps you guessing."
The three dots took their time. She imagined him in a large house somewhere, a bedroom with high ceilings and sheets that cost more than her rent, lying back with a glass of something expensive and grinning at the screen.
"Guessing, nothing. You're a puzzle with missing pieces and I'm stuck on it. Tell me about the view."
"Meaning?"
"There's a reason you like that position. The view you're talking about, the one you're giving. What do you want him to see?"
The question was quiet and direct, and it took her breath for a moment. No one had ever asked her that. Jamie had never asked her anything, really, beyond whether she was close to coming. She lay in the dark with Harry's question and felt herself answering before she had decided to.
"The whole of it," she typed. "Everything. The effort and the shape and the fact that I'm choosing it, every second, choosing to be there with him. That's what I want someone to see. That I'm there because I want to be."
"That's the loveliest thing anyone's ever said to me."
"To him. You said to him."
"To the hypothetical man in the theoretical position. My apologies. Still lovely."
She laughed into the darkness, the sound muffled by the duvet. Her phone glowed in her hand, and she lay there, a smile settling into her face that she couldn't quite shift.
"My turn," she typed. "Favourite position. And you can't say 'anything she wants.' That's a polite answer and I'll know you're lying."
"Reverse cowgirl."
She snorted. "You're mocking me."
"I'm being honest. There's something about it from the man's perspective too. Not the view, though that's a given. It's the trust."
"Trust."
"You're letting someone watch you. You're doing all the work, moving the way you want to move, setting the rhythm. And you're giving him everything at the same time. There's nothing like it. Being trusted like that."
She read the message twice, and the second time she felt a pull in her chest that had nothing to do with the explicit nature of the conversation. He had turned her own words back at her, refined them into something she hadn't quite articulated even to herself. The warmth in her belly spread outwards, settling into her limbs.
"You're better at this than you let on," she typed.
"At seeing the woman I'm talking to, you mean."
"At making a girl feel special when you're just trying to get her into bed."
"Is that what I'm doing?"
"Isn't it?"
The three dots appeared and vanished, and for a moment she thought she'd misread the game, pushed too far into honesty. Then his reply came.
"No. I can't prove that, and maybe you won't believe it, but it's not. I like talking to you. I like the way you think. And I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't love to see you across a table sometime. But that's not the same as trying to get you into bed. If this is heading anywhere, I'd like to see what's in your head first."
Charli lay in the dark with that, the weight of the words settling over her. It was a good answer, the right answer, the one that made her feel like more than a collection of measurements. But she had learned to be wary of good answers, the way men learned what to say to make women feel chosen.
"How many people have you been with?" she typed, and hit send before she could reconsider.
The reply came faster than she expected. "Twelve. Thirteen if you count a blurry week in Milan."
She read it, then typed, "The Milan one sounds like a story."
"It was a semester abroad. I was twenty-two. I don't remember her name and I feel badly about that."
"At least you're honest about it."
"I'd rather be honest than give you a tidy number that doesn't match the rest of me. You?"
Charli considered the question. She had done the mental arithmetic before, in dark rooms with other men who'd asked the same thing, and the number had always felt smaller than it should, a point of vulnerability rather than pride. She had slept with four men before Jamie, all of them brief, none of them memorable enough to warrant more than a passing mention in her own history. Then Jamie, the fifth, and she had assumed he would be the last.
"Five," she typed. "All before Jamie."
"Those are different numbers."
"I know."
"Do you feel badly about that?"
She shook her head in the dark, though he couldn't see her. "I don't feel badly. I feel like I missed something. Like everyone else got a head start and I was in the classroom taking notes."
"That's an interesting way to put it. Notes. What do you feel like you missed?"
She thought about it, the phone warm in her hand, the dark pressing in at the edges. "I don't know yet. I'm still taking notes."
A long pause. Then: "What are you doing right now?"
She shifted in the bed, the duvet rustling around her. The question was simple, but its weight was unmistakable. He was opening a door, inviting her to step through or close it again gently.
"In bed," she typed. "The flat's empty. Jamie's at his parents' for two days. Just me and my notes."
"That sounds lonely."
"It has its moments. Right now it feels less lonely than it should."
"Good. That's good. I'm in bed too. Wide awake, thinking about a woman who likes reverse cowgirl and control and can solve a differential equation in her sleep."
"Jealous of her?"
"Envious of the page she's writing on."
She laughed, and the sound was warm in the quiet room. The conversation had settled into something comfortable, something that felt almost like lying beside someone in the dark, whispering so as not to wake the house.
The laughter still lingered on her lips when she typed her reply, a playful counter to the sincerity he kept slipping into the conversation.
"Careful. You're sounding like a poet. I thought I was speaking to a well-hung rich kid with a physics degree, not a man who writes sonnets in his spare time."
The reply came fast, almost immediate. "I contain multitudes. Multitudes, and an eight-and-a-half-inch advantage. Both equally well-documented."
"I'll take your word for the first. The second I have on record now, so there's no walking it back."
"Wouldn't dream of it. Consider it deposition and exhibits. You're the only one who's ever had it in writing."
"Should I frame it?"
"If it helps you sleep at night."
Charli shifted in the bed, the duvet tangled around her legs, the phone propped against her pillow. The conversation had that effortless quality again, the push and pull that made the hours disappear. She checked the clock on her phone; past one in the morning. Tomorrow held a tutorial and a shift at the club, and still she made no move to end the exchange.
"So answer me something," he typed. "And I know I'll sound like every other man on the internet asking this, but I'm hoping you'll take pity on me."
"What's the question?"
"What are you wearing?"
She laughed out loud into the dark. The question was ridiculous and predictable and she had been waiting for it, half-hoping he'd have the restraint not to ask, half-wanting him to break. Her body felt warm beneath the duvet, the heat of the conversation settling into her skin.
"That's not very original."
"Never claimed to be. I'm asking because I want to know, not because I think it's clever."
"You said taking pity on you."
"I did. Will you?"
She stared at the screen a long moment, considering. The privacy of the dark and the empty flat gave her a strange courage. She could have lied, given him a simple answer, the kind of thing she wore to bed when Jamie was home. But he wasn't home, and there was a part of her, growing every day, that wanted to give Harry more.
"So I'm lying on my side," she typed. "Under this duvet that's seen better days. The flat's cold because the heating's on a timer and it's gone off for the night. So I'm wearing Jamie's old hoodie. It's grey and worn and it's been washed so many times it's gone soft, like it's been through a river. And underneath, nothing. Not a stitch. Just skin and the hoodie and a heating bill I'm pretending doesn't exist."
She hit send and the message was gone before she could snatch it back. Her heart beat hard against her ribs, the words already feeling like too much. It was true, all of it, and the admission had a weight she hadn't anticipated. She had never been the kind of woman who sent messages like this, who gave away the details of her body to a man she barely knew. But the dark was generous and the conversation had stripped away her usual caution.
The three dots appeared immediately. Then vanished. Then appeared again. She waited, breath held.
"That image is going to keep me up for a while," he typed. "In a good way. You know that, right?"
"You said you wanted to know."
"I did. I just didn't expect it to be so vivid. You're good at this."
"At describing my own clothes?"
"At letting me in."
The words hit her somewhere unexpected, low in her stomach and warm. She was letting him in, that was true. Into the flat, into the bed, into the parts of her life she kept private. And it felt good in a way she hadn't anticipated, a freedom that came with the dark and the distance.
"And you?" she typed. "What are you wearing?"
"Nothing worth describing. Boxers and a cold house."
"That's not a fair answer."
The reply came fast, almost immediate. "Nothing worth describing. Boxers and a cold house."
"That's not a fair answer."
"What would be fair?"
"Something more than 'boxers.' You gave me Jamie's hoodie and the heating bill and nothing underneath. I gave you a full picture. You've given me a word."
A pause. The three dots appeared, vanished, reappeared. And then the screen flickered, a ghost of an image beginning to load, and Charli's breath caught in her throat as the picture resolved.
He was lying on a bed, sheets rumpled beneath him, the angle low and close. The photo cut off at his chest, showing only the smooth plane of his stomach, the sharp jut of his hipbones, and the waistband of a pair of dark boxers with a name she didn't recognise, some designer brand that cost more than a month of her groceries. The fabric was taut across the front of him, draped over a shape that was unmistakably thick and long even in the dim light of whatever expensive bedroom he lay in. The imprint pressed against the cotton, heavy and undeniable, the head of him outlined sharply where the fabric stretched.
Charli stared at the screen, her thumb frozen over it, the warmth in her chest spilling down into her stomach and lower. She had seen the measurements written in words, had let the number sit in her imagination, but the reality of it was different. Eight and a half inches was a number. This was anatomy, projected across a phone screen in the dark of a flat that smelled of stale coffee.
She typed, her fingers clumsy. "Well. That's certainly a pair of boxers."
"Just boxers?"
"They're doing a lot of heavy lifting."
"You're deflecting."
"I'm complimenting the brand. What is it, if you don't mind me asking? I need to know what to look for in a bargain bin."
He sent a laughing emoji, and she smiled despite the heat in her cheeks. She locked the phone for a second, held it face down on her chest, and took a breath. Then she picked it up again.
"Your turn," he typed. "I've shown you mine."
"I don't think that's how the game works."
"That's exactly how the game works. Fair's fair. You described the outfit, now show me the outfit."
"You got the description. That's the generous version."
"Generous is the picture."
"I'm very shy."
"You sent me your bra size and your favourite position within an hour of meeting me. You're not shy, you're selective. I'm flattered to be selected."
Charli lay there, the phone warm in her hand, the image of him still open in the thread. She could scroll back to it any time, could let her eyes trace the line of him again, and the thought made her pulse quicken. But the idea of sending a picture in return, of letting him see her the way she lay in this bed in Jamie's hoodie, with nothing beneath it, made something close in her chest.
"You'll have to earn it," she typed. "I'm not in the habit of sending photographs to men I've only ever seen in lectures."
"I've seen you in a lot less than a lecture."
"That's different. That was work."
"Is it? I've certainly thought about it as work. Exhaustive, rigorous work."
"You're incorrigible."
"I'm persistent. There's a difference."
She smiled and settled deeper into the bed, the duvet pulled up to her chin. The conversation had a rhythm she was growing addicted to, the constant teasing that made the explicit words feel lighter than they were. But beneath the lightness, there was a tension building, something she could feel tightening in her chest the longer they talked.
"So," he typed. "Now that we've established the measurements, I have a question. And I know it's going to sound like the kind of thing men ask to sound bold, but I'm genuinely interested."
"Go on."
"What's the biggest you've had?"
The question landed in the dark of the room and hung there. Charli read it twice, the screen glowing in her hand, and then she closed her eyes for a second. She had known the question was coming eventually. It always did, in conversations like this, a natural progression from measurements and descriptions to the ledger of past lovers. But the honest answer sat differently when she considered it.
She thought back through the list. Five men, five bodies, five brief and mostly unremarkable encounters. There had been Simon, a boy from her first year of undergraduate, average in every respect, quick and apologetic. A man she'd met at a party during her second year, whose name she couldn't quite remember, no better than Simon. Then Ben, a friend of Jamie's from before they'd met, which had been a mistake in more ways than one. And then there was Marcus, a visiting researcher from Cambridge, older, more experienced, who had been what she might generously call substantial. She had measured him once, out of curiosity, when he'd been asleep beside her. Seven inches, perhaps a little over, thick enough that it had been a few sessions before she'd adjusted. But Marcus had been useless in bed, all thrust and no attention, gone before she'd had a chance to finish, and the size had counted for nothing in the end.
The fifth was Jamie, and she didn't need to measure him to know he was smaller than Marcus, smaller than the average even, and she had made peace with that because she loved him.
He couldn't see any of this. All he could see was the three dots, if he could see those at all.
She typed. "Nine."
The lie sat on the screen, neat and unbothered. She watched it for a moment, the number doing its work, and then she added, "Before Jamie. A one-night thing with a man I met at a conference. Nice enough, but it was a single night."
The three dots appeared immediately. "Nine. That's substantial."
"Was."
"Was what?"
"It was a long time ago. Not something I think about much. You asked the question, I gave you the number."
"Did it feel good?"
The question came without hesitation, and Charli felt the weight of it settle on her. She could have answered honestly, could have told him that seven inches of uselessness had been worse than Jamie's careful attention, that size meant nothing when the man didn't know what to do with it. But the lie had already taken root, and there was a part of her that wanted to see how far she could push it.
"It was like being taken apart," she typed. "Slowly at first, then faster. The kind of feeling that stays with you for days. I remember being sore the morning after, in a good way. The good kind of sore."
She hit send and lay back in the dark, a strange thrill running through her. The words were fiction, a story she was spinning from nothing, but the effect was real. Her heart was beating faster, her skin warm beneath the duvet, and she had the sense of having stepped into a version of herself that was bolder, more confident, more alive.
"Now I'm jealous," he typed.
"That's the idea."
"Of a man who got one night with you. I'm used to being jealous of the men who get more."
"The one who gets more doesn't know I'm talking to you."
"I know. I think about that sometimes."
"Don't."
"Why not?"
"Because it's late and I'm in bed and the flat's empty and I don't want to think about what I'm doing."
"Then what do you want to think about?"
She read the question, and the answer rose in her before she could stop it. The image of him in those boxers, the weight of him outlined against the fabric, the thought of what it would feel like to have that thick presence inside her, pressing deep. She pushed the thought away, but the heat of it lingered.
"I want to stop answering questions," she typed, and the lightness was back in her voice. "And I want to know how many of those boxers you have, because the quality of that photograph was surprisingly good for a man who claims not to be trying."
"You keep deflecting."
"It's my superpower."
"I'll get through it eventually."
"Good luck. It's a long way down."
She sent it with a grin, the lie still warm between them, and watched the three dots appear again. The night stretched on, the flat empty around her, and she lay there in Jamie's hoodie with nothing underneath, feeling the distance between the girl in this bed and the girl she was becoming.
"Good luck. It's a long way down."
His reply came a few moments later, and she could practically hear the grin in the words. "I've always enjoyed a challenge. The longer the descent, the sweeter the view at the bottom."
"You started as a physicist and now you're writing poetry. I'm beginning to think you're wasted on academia."
"Wasted on academia, sharp with innuendo. I should put that on a business card."
Charli shifted in the bed, the duvet slipping down her shoulder. The conversation had taken on a current she could feel in her skin, a low hum of anticipation that made sleep feel like a distant possibility. She checked the clock again; gone two in the morning, and the flat was still empty and dark around her.
"Can I ask you something personal?" he typed.
"You've asked me my bra size, my favourite position, and whether I measure up to a man I slept with once before my current boyfriend. I think the bar for 'personal' is already on the floor."
"Good, so I can ask any way I want."
"You're going to ask anyway. Go on."
"Toys."
The single word sat on the screen, unadorned. Charli read it, then read it again, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
"Toys?" she typed.
"Does the equipment drawer contain anything beyond the standard issue?"
"You write 'equipment drawer' like you're conducting a stocktake."
"I'm a methodical man. I like to know the terrain before I visit."
"And who said you're visiting?"
"Nobody. But I'm a hopeful man as well as a methodical one."
Charli laughed, soft and low in the dark, and let the question settle. It was a test, she knew, the same way the measurements had been a test. He was probing, carefully and playfully, to see how far she would go. And beneath the surface of the joke there was a real question, a real interest in the shape of her private life.
"I might have a thing or two," she typed.
"Define 'a thing or two.'"
"A wand. You know the kind. The big ones with the name everyone recognises."
"The classic. Good choice. And?"
"And what makes you think there's more?"
"Because a woman who admits to a wand straight away has something else in the drawer. There's always a second tier."
Charli bit her lip, warmth spreading through her belly. He was right, of course. The wand had been a gift to herself a year into living with Jamie, a move she'd kept carefully zipped inside a makeup bag at the bottom of her wardrobe. The other purchase had followed a few months later, picked up in a shop she'd walked past three times before working up the nerve to go inside, and she had never once told Jamie about it.
"There's a dildo," she typed, and hit send before she could reconsider.
"Now we're talking."
"Six inches. Nothing special. I chose it because it was average."
"Why average?"
"Because I'd never had much before, and I wanted to know what it was supposed to feel like. What all the fuss was about."
"And did you find out?"
"Not yet. It's mostly just been me and the wand. Basic needs."
The three dots were silent for a long moment. Then: "A shame, really."
"What is?"
"Six inches. You've got a wand and you've got a dildo, and the dildo's six inches. That's like taking a test drive in a family sedan when you know there's a sports car on the lot."
Charli's smile spread into something slower, darker. She read the message twice, enjoying the shape of it.
"You think six inches is a family sedan?"
"I think six inches is respectable. I think it's a nice, dependable car that gets you where you need to go. But you've done the maths. You know what's out there."
"And what are you supposed to be, then? A Lamborghini?"
"I don't know if I'm a Lamborghini. But if the measurement's accurate, I'm at least in the conversation."
"Very modest."
"I'm honest. There's a difference."
Charli shifted in the bed, her knees pressing together beneath the duvet, the heat between her thighs a quiet pulse. The conversation had crossed a line she hadn't fully acknowledged, moving from flirtation into something more concrete. But the distance of the screen made it safe, made it feel like a game she could walk away from at any moment.
"It's a shame," she typed. "Five and a half inches I'd need to find somewhere."
"There are companies that make exactly that, you know."
"What, custom dildos?"
"Clone-a-Willy. It's a thing. You make a mould, you send it off, you get a replica. I've got a friend who did one for his wife before he went on deployment. She swears by it."
"You want to clone your willy for me?"
"I want to make you a replacement that matches the spec. You said it's a shame it's so small. I'm offering a solution."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm generous. There's a difference."
Charli laughed, the sound bright in the dark, her hand pressed against her mouth. The absurdity of it, the sheer audacity of the offer, had her grinning despite herself. And beneath the grin, something else stirred, something that made the game feel less like a joke.
"And if I said yes?" she typed.
"Then I'd have a very interesting conversation with a very expensive company, and you'd have something to keep you company until the real thing arrives."
"You're tempting me."
"I'm not doing anything. I'm just pointing out the possibilities."
She lay in the dark, the phone warm in her hand, and felt the conversation tilt. The joke had become something else, a real possibility hanging in the space between them. Eight and a half inches of Harry, replicated in silicone, making its way to her flat, to this bed, to the place between her thighs where she would press it slowly, feeling the weight of him, the fullness, imagining the man at the other end of the screen watching her do it.
"So," he typed. "Are you going to get any use out of the six-incher tonight?"
Charli read the message, the words sitting in the dark of the room like a challenge. Her body answered before her mind could catch up, a throb of heat behind the question. She looked down at her own body, at the soft grey of Jamie's hoodie stretched over her breasts, at the duvet pooling around her hips.
"Maybe," she typed.
"That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either."
"Then I'll ask differently. If you were going to use it, what would you be thinking about?"
Charli lay very still, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. The question was a trap, or an invitation, or both, and she felt herself falling into it willingly. The lie she had told earlier, about the nine-inch man and being taken apart, rose in her mind. But the image that followed wasn't the nameless face of a conference stranger. It was Harry. It was the picture he'd sent, the outline of him in those expensive boxers, the weight of him in her imagination pressing deeper than she'd ever known.
"I'd be thinking about the spec," she typed.
"The spec being?"
"Eight and a half."
A long pause. Then: "I'm going to be thinking about that all night."
"Good."
"You know what I could do with a picture."
"I know what you'd do with more than a picture, and you're not getting that either."
"A picture of the tool, then. Not you. Just the thing, laid out on the sheets. Prove to me it's real."
Charli stared at the screen, her heart thudding. It was a small thing, a photograph of an object, nothing of her face, nothing that could be traced back to her life. And yet the thought of it, of him looking at the toy she'd kept hidden for months, made something in her chest tighten.
She sat up in the bed, pushing the duvet aside. The flat was dark around her, the only light the pale glow of her phone and the thin wash of moonlight through the curtains. She stood, the worn fabric of the hoodie falling to her thighs, and padded across the room to her wardrobe.
The makeup bag was where she'd left it, tucked at the back of the bottom drawer beneath a pile of old jumpers. She pulled it out, the familiar weight of it in her hands, and carried it back to the bed.
She felt the cool weight of the silicone as she eased it out. Six inches, pink, a soft curve at the tip. She had held it only a handful of times, always with the curtains drawn and the door locked, and each time she had felt a small thrill at her own audacity.
She lay back on the bed, the dildo in her hand, and considered the request. A picture, just the toy. Nothing more. She could frame it, angle it so the sheets were all that showed. Simple, safe, anonymous.
But the hoodie was already rucking up around her hips, and the moonlight was falling across her body, and the heat between her thighs was making her thoughts slow and heavy. She pulled the hoodie up, over her breasts, over her head, and let it fall to the floor. The night air hit her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and her bare legs.
She lay back, the phone angled in her hand, and placed the dildo flat against her stomach, just below her navel. The pink of it against her pale skin, the weight of it resting there, the curve of her lower belly rising gently beneath it. She framed the shot low, cutting off her breasts, cutting off her face, showing only the toy and the hollow of her stomach and the suggestion of her hips at the edges.
She took three photos. Deleted the first two. Sent the third.
The reply came in seconds.
"Fuck."
She watched the screen, her breath shallow, her skin warm.
"That's a very pretty picture," he typed.
"You said you wanted proof."
"I said I wanted proof. I didn't expect it to be art."
"Just the tool, like you asked."
"I know. And I know there's more of you just out of frame, and that's somehow worse."
Charli didn't answer. Her hand moved without her consciously deciding, sliding down her stomach, her fingers finding the heat between her thighs. She was slick already, the conversation and the exposure and the weight of the toy on her skin doing things words alone shouldn't have done.
"Are you going to use it?" he typed.
She looked at the message, her thumb hovering, her body humming.
The question hung on the screen, and she could feel the weight of his attention on her even through the distance. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to tell him she was going to sink the pink curve into her own heat and think of him while she did it, wanted to describe every second of it in the kind of detail that had been building all night.
But something held her back. A thread of caution, thin but stubborn, wrapped around the part of her that still remembered who she was supposed to be.
"Don't get ahead of yourself," she typed. "I've got a tutorial in the morning and a shift tomorrow night. A girl needs her rest."
"Rest," he replied. "That's what you're calling it."
"That's what I'm calling it. And you should be sleeping too. You've got a whole seminar to look smug in tomorrow."
"I'm always smug. It's a gift."
She smiled, her thumb hovering. The heat between her thighs was still insistent, the weight of the dildo cool where it rested against her stomach. She could end the conversation now, turn off the phone, and try to sleep. Or she could give him something small, something that would hold him until they spoke again.
"Hold on," she typed, and switched to voice notes before she could reconsider.
She shifted in the bed, lying back against the pillows, her knees falling open. The room was dark around her, moonlight spilling across her bare skin. She pressed the record button, held the phone close to her mouth, and spoke in a low murmur.
She angled the phone down, the tip of the dildo pressing against her slick folds. She tilted her hips, pushed gently, and let the soft wet sound of it entering her fill the recording for three long seconds. A breath escaped her, low and shaky, before she switched the recording off.
She sent it without listening back to it, her heart hammering.
The reply came in seconds. "That's the sound I'll dream about tonight."
"You're welcome. Now go to sleep."
"Impossible now. But I'll try."
"Goodnight, Harry."
"Goodnight, Charli. Sweet dreams."
She put the phone face down on the nightstand and lay in the dark, her breath still uneven. The dildo was inside her, a familiar fullness, and the warmth between her thighs had curdled into a need that wouldn't be ignored. She closed her eyes, his voice in her head, the picture he'd sent, the eight and a half inches of him, and her hand crept down.
Two minutes, maybe three. The pleasure was building slow, her hips beginning to move against her palm, the dildo pressing deep with each shift. She had her eyes closed, the image of him vivid behind her lids, the shape of him against those boxers, the way the fabric had strained.
Then the phone pinged.
She ignored it. Her hand kept moving.
It pinged again.
She opened her eyes, irritation flickering through the haze. She reached for the phone, intending to silence it, and the screen glowed with his name. A single message. A photograph.
She opened it.
The image was unmistakable. He had taken it at a low angle, lying back, the phone held above his hips. Fully erect, standing proud from a nest of dark hair, the length of him thick and heavy. The head was flushed, the shaft veined, the whole of it somehow larger than she had imagined when she'd read the measurement. Too much. More than she had ever taken.
Her breath caught. Her thighs pressed together, the dildo shifting inside her.
She typed with one hand, her other still pressed between her legs. "I said I was going to sleep."
The reply came fast. "Couldn't help myself. Not after that sound."
"I'm busy."
"Busy doing what?"
She didn't answer. She put the phone down, propped against the nightstand, the image still glowing on the screen. She looked at it as her hips began to move again, the dildo working inside her, the sight of him feeding the heat building low in her belly.
She reached for the phone, her fingers slick, and propped it against the pillow.
He typed again. "Charli?"
She watched the message appear and her breath stuttered. She rolled her hips, the dildo pressing deep, and her hand found her clit, circling fast, the image of him burning in her vision. The fullness inside her, the sight of him, the knowledge of what she was doing in the empty flat, it all converged at once.
The orgasm tore through her, sudden and sharp.
She arched off the bed, her mouth open, a sound escaping her that was half gasp, half moan, her hand working frantically as the waves crested and broke and continued to roll. The dildo pressed deep and she squeezed around it, the heat of it flooding through her, leaving her trembling and slick in the aftermath.
She lay still for a long moment, her breath ragged, her body humming. Then she reached for the phone, his message still glowing on the screen.
"Now I'm really not going to sleep."
She typed back, her fingers clumsy. "Good. That makes two of us."
"You sound breathless."
"Tutorial in the morning. I need to rest."
"I can hear it in your voice, you know. The way you are right now."
She smiled into the dark, the phone warm in her hand, his image still open on the screen. "I'll speak to you tomorrow," she typed. "I've got stuff to do round the flat."
The three dots appeared, then vanished. Then: "Tomorrow. I'll be counting the hours."
She locked the phone and lay back, the dildo still inside her, the aftershocks trembling through her limbs. The room was dark and quiet, Jamie hours away, and she felt a profound and terrifying aliveness she hadn't known in months.