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But the reasonable, logical part of my brain is gone. Every thought is screaming Dean.
I roll my jeans over my hip. The one with the shooting star tattoo. The tattoo he traced that night that started everything.
Or maybe it finished everything.
I'm not sure.
I angle my cell just right. So the pic shows the tattoo, my skin, and my black panties.
There. I snap the photo. Hit send before I can chicken out.
Dean: You trying to kill me?
Chloe: Maybe.
Dean: You're succeeding.
Chloe: You're alone, right?
Dean: Yeah.
Chloe: So, if I ask you to take off those boxers?
My cheeks flush. I've never done this before. I've never asked a guy for a sexy picture. With my ex, I was too shy. And we weren't the type to talk about sex. To drag it out.
It was more rote. Get in, come, cuddle, get out.
It was good, but not like this.
Not something that set me on fire.
Dean: Are you asking?
My gaze shifts to the letter on my desk. Three weeks until I meet my fate.
Three weeks to seize life by the balls.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I tap a yes. Go to hit send.
A knock on the door startles me.
My fingers slip. My phone hits the floor. "Yeah?"
"Gia wants to go out for ice cream," Dad calls from the other side of the door. "You want to come?"
Fuck, what a question.
I pick up my phone. Tap backspace until the text is gone.
I want to keep flirting with Dean.
I want to get his clothes off and his hand around his cock and his thoughts on me.
But my trance is broken.
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Reality is sinking in.
