Page 56 of Key of Kink

I didn’t reach for my phone. If he texted, he texted. If he didn’t, he didn’t.

And then it hit me.

I don’t just want another scene. I want to see how far Max will let himself go.

“Quinn? You home?” Jess yelled up the stairs. “There’s pizza in the oven if you’re interested.”

My stomach rumbled. “Coming.” I discarded my jeans and pulled on a pair of comfy sweats before charging down the stairs. The pizza’s aroma made my mouth water.

Jess was alone in the kitchen.

“Where is everyone?”

She put out two plates. “Sam is on a date with Caroline. Maya went to the cinema with some friends.” She grinned. “So I’m it. Will I do?”

I snorted. “You have pizza. Stupid question.”

Jess cocked her head. “Good night?”

I smiled. “Yeah.” I set my phone on the kitchen table, face up. I tried not to stare at it.

“Expecting something?”

“Nope,” I lied. I went over to the tap and filled a glass. I glanced at the phone.

She chuckled. “Sure about that? Because you give every indication of waiting for something.” Her breathing caught. “This guy at the club… the one whose name you’ve been so careful not to share…. It’s him, isn’t it?” I jerked my head in her direction. Jess’s eyes were wide and shining. “He’s got your number? Wow. That’s huge. I mean, I know What’s His Face had it, but…”

I sighed. “His name’s Max, all right? And yeah, he’s got my number. I gave it to him tonight.”

Jess bit her lip. “And how many times have you checked your phone since then?”

Another snort. “Too many to count. So we’re going to eat pizza and not mention it, okay?”

Yeah, right. Jess wouldn’t be able to resist.

Max

When I got back to the flat, I took a shower, made tea, removed towels from the drier and folded them, filled the washing machine, and ignored my phone that sat on the counter, face down.

I lasted twenty-three minutes before checking the screen.

No messages.

Of course there aren’t. I exhaled through my nose. This is absurd. It’s a phone, not a contract in blood. I opened Quinn’s page and stared at the blank space.

Home safe? I typed. Then I deleted it. That sounds too concerned, too parental. I typed again.

Did you get back all right?

Deleted. Too intimate.

I closed the app, put the phone down, and walked away from it. I put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, but before they were done, I was back.

This is not loss of control. This is calibration.

I typed: Let me know when you’re home. That came across as neutral. Clear. Definitely not needy. I hit Send, locked the phone, and didn’t look at it again.

For at least forty seconds, long enough for the smell of burning toast to reach my nostrils.