Page 95 of Josephine and Clay

My breath catches. I stare at the message, heat creeping up my neck before I can stop it.

This is the problem.

This right here.

He makes everything feel lighter than it is, simpler, like we’re still in that space where none of this has consequences.

But it does.

It has consequences I haven’t even told him about yet.

I should stop.

Josie: That was a one-time lapse in judgment.

Clay: Sure it was.

How does this always happen?

By the time I climb into bed, the tone of the messages has shifted completely. My heart is absolutely thundering.

Josie: Clay, you know that’s not work-appropriate.

Clay: I’m not at work. I don’t think you are at this time either.

Josie: Still inappropriate.

Clay: Then why aren’t you deleting my number?

I stare at the ceiling, trying to think of a retort that isn’t just a moan typed into digital air.

Josie: Not sure. Probably bad judgment.

Clay: Or maybe you just like the way I taste.

My thighs press together, hard, as if that could keep the ache contained.

Josie: Is that so?

Clay: I hope so. I think about it a lot.

I should end this conversation before it turns into something I can’t justify anymore.

Instead, my hand is under the covers, pressing between my legs over the fabric of my shorts because I’ve missed this.

Josie: Tell me.

Clay: You want me to talk dirty to you again?

My hand slides down my body.

Josie: Are you touching yourself?

Clay: I’m hard as fuck. I want you to touch yourself and pretend it’s my tongue.

My breath falters as I squeeze, pressing through two layers of cotton, desperate for friction but not ready to give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

Josie: I don’t pretend.