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Blinking, I read the message again. I think my face just went numb. Either it’s the moonshine or the realization that he said my gift worked great. Worked—as in past-tense.
He used it.
ME: You tested it out?
CAM: Still testing it out, actually.
The hands covering a face emoji he used sinks in through my foggy brain. Still testing it out.
Mother of God.
“Do not tell me you’re doing work on a Saturday night,” Miranda’s voice comes crashing into my thoughts.
“What? No.” Clearing my throat, I hold my phone closer to my chest even though she’s three feet away.
“Good. You let that place run your life.”
ME: As in, right now?
My breath is in my throat as I send off the message with my thumb. Picturing Cam using the toy I sent him is… it’s fucking criminal. Unleashed Pete is threatening to make an appearance on my parents’ damned porch. Why I thought he’d stay in Bellevue must have been wishful thinking. Wishful thinking that I wouldn’t have to sort out all the thoughts in my head about Cameron Fairway.
“If it’s not work, who are you texting there, Petey?” Jesse chirps.
“No one.” I take a sip of the tart moonshine so it won’t look like I'm placing any importance on my phone.
CAM: Yes
Fucking. Hell.
I type the keys in a blur, sending without a second thought to what I’m asking. Unleashed Pete. Usual Pete. I don’t fucking care which one I am, which one’s in charge right now. I need to see this.
ME: Show me
“Oh, ho! Holy shit!” Jesse coos. “Look at your face!”
“What?” I practically snap. Now is not the time for interruptions.
“You’re talking to someone.”
“Of course, I’m talking to someone. That’s what you do on phones.”
“No. I mean, a woman. You’re over there working it, aren’t you?”
I almost blurt out that he’s wrong but catch myself. He doesn’t need to know if I’m talking to a man or a woman. He doesn’t need to know if it’s about the weather or prostate stimulators, for that matter. He just needs to fuck off and not put his nasty laundry in my old room.
“You’re freaking ridicu–’
My tongue gets stuck in my throat, and it’s very possible that I’m having a stroke. As I blink, my mind slowly processes the image I just received.
The curve of ass cheeks. The dusky hue of a taint. Pliable, tender flesh of a heavy sack, being held up by two artful fingers. I remember those fingers, those talented fingers.
The highlight of the image, however, is the thin purple object being kissed like a lollipop by a dark, rosy pucker. A dark, glistening pucker that can only be Cam’s asshole.
He… swallowed it.
It’s in him.
The toy. My toy. The toy I sent him.
