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My fingers catch at the knot of my tie, tugging it loose until the silk slips slack. I work at the top button with clumsy hands, slipping it open, then another, until the collar eases back from my throat.

“Jesus Christ,” I rasp under my breath, sinking down into my chair.

The phone’s already in my hand like I never let it go. The screen burns hot against my palm. That picture’s still there—filthy, seared into the back of my eyes—and my thumb drags across the glass slowly, like I might feel her wetness through it.

Blood rushes to my cock, hard enough to hurt, straining against my slacks. All I can think about is what she’d make me do if I were kneeling in front of her right now. Tongue pressed deep until my jaw ached, hands behind my back like a good boy while she rocked against my face. Or bent over her couch, shoving my hips forward, desperate, begging for permission to come.

I type before I can think myself out of it.

Noah

You aren’t playing fair.

I sit there, thumb hovering, dragging over the edge of that photo like I could touch her through it as the three dots appear. Vanish. Appear again.

Sable

It’s just a picture. Don’t tell me you’re falling apart over a JPEG?

A broken laugh punches out of me, rough and useless. My thumbs trip over themselves.

Noah

You knew exactly what you were doing.

The dots flicker. Vanish. Come back. Vanish again. She’s stringing me along, and my pulse is hanging on every beat.

Sable

Maybe I did.

Or maybe you just can’t handle it.

Noah

You’re cruel.

Sable

Cruel? No. I’m generous.

Now quit sulking. Show me you can play.

Show her I can play?

My chest lurches, pulse trying to claw its way out through my ribs.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

How the hell am I supposed to do this?

Her picture was sexy. Nobody in the history of the world has ever opened a picture of a dick and thought, ‘wow, art.’ They’re all the same—bad lighting, awkward angles, meat and veins that look exactly like… well… meat and veins. There’s nothing sexy about them. Nothing redeemable. Just raw material that looks like it should be shrink-wrapped and shoved in the back of a butcher’s fridge.

But she told me to play. And if she wants it—fuck—I’ll try. Because it’s her. Because if she told me to draw it in crayon and mail it around the world before it hit her desk, I’d dig out a box of crayons and go to town.

Right. Angles. Lighting.

I shove my chair back, unbuckle my belt, and shove my slacks and boxers down far enough to free myself. My cock’s already straining, flushed dark, aching from the thought of her seeing it.