I snap a photo and glance at it, instantly grimacing.
Holy shit. I’m horrible at this.
I delete the photo and try again—this time lying on my side, one leg bent, my head propped up on my hand. But the angle’s weird, and my T-shirt makes my body look too bulky. Delete.
Okay, maybe if I get a little artsy with it. I sit with my legs spread slightly, shirt falling just enough to tease without revealing too much, biting my bottom lip. Snap.
I check the photo, then instantly delete it. I look like I’m in physical pain.
Mason is probably waiting for my reply, hand on his cock, wondering why I’m taking so long. My stomach flips at the thought, and I realize I’m officially in over my head. I need help. The kind of help that can only come from a friend who has absolutely no shame.
I open my contacts, scroll to Derek’s name, and hit call.
“What’s up, bitch?” he answers after two rings.
“Uh… I need your expertise.”
There’s a pause. “Expertise in what, exactly?”
I swallow my pride. “Taking… sexy pictures.”
Derek laughs so loud I have to pull my phone away from my ear. “Oh my God, you’re finally sexting Mason, aren’t you?”
I groan. “I’m trying, but I’m so fucking awkward. Please, for the love of God, help me.”
He lets out a soft sigh. “Alright, my sweet, innocent best friend. First rule: no overhead lighting. Second rule: angles are everything. Where’s your mirror?”
“In front of me.”
“Good. Now… sit on the floor, knees bent, one leg tucked closer to you. Lean on one hand so your torso twists a little. It’ll make your waist look smaller and your ass bigger.”
I put the call on speaker and reposition, phone balanced in one hand. I try the pose. Snap. Check.
I groan. “I look constipated.”
He snorts. “Jesus Christ, you’re hopeless.”
“Derek!” I plead desperately.
“Okay, okay, listen—thinksmolder. Like… you’re undressing Mason with your eyes. And then you’re thinking about what you’d do once he’s naked.”
My mouth suddenly feels dry. “That’s… graphic.”
“You called me, sweetheart. Now commit.”
I bitemy lip and try to picture Mason—his hazel eyes looking at me through half-lidded lashes, the slow drag of his fingertips over my skin, the lazy smirk he gets when he knows he’s teasing me. My body heat ticks up a degree. Snap.
I send it to Derek.
A moment later, he responds with an approving whistle through the phone. “There it is. That’s hot. Now—show a little more skin. Maybe push your shirt up so the waistband of your underwear is visible.”
“You’re disturbingly good at this,” I grumble.
“Of course I am. How the hell do you think Oliver and I survived when he went overseas for that foreign exchange program?”
My nose wrinkles. “Ugh, gross.”
“Fuck off. You asked for this. Now take the damn photo.”
