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She rolls her eyes. “You do not. The only business-related thing you do on that phone is like the Instagram posts Oona puts up on the shop’s profile.”
“Social proof is important,” I argue.
“I’ll cover your likes,” she says with an eye roll.
“Fine.” I slap my phone into her outstretched palm. “But you’re totally wrong about this. I can absolutely go two days without texting Devon.”
What the hell was I thinking? I can absolutelynotgo two days without texting Devon. In the past two months I’ve barely gone two hours without texting him, and now I’m supposed to last two days? It’s only been a few hours and already my skin feels like it’s crawling off my body without the soothing presence of my phone.
I toss around in bed, punching at my pillow and yanking up the blankets, but I can’t get comfortable. It’s this time of night that Devon and I usually sext and I’m just now realising exactly how addicted I’ve become to that routine.
Christ, I’m addicted to everything about him. But that doesn’t mean Ifancyhim. His arse, maybe. And his lips. And his tongue. But Devon as an actual person? Nope. No way.
I roll onto my back and let out a groan of frustration, a hand coming up to scrub at my hair. My body has clearly begun to equate this time of night with orgasms, because I’m hard as stone right now, but the idea of tossing off without being able to share it with Devon feels…wrong, somehow.
Jesus, what iswrongwith me?
My mood worsens when it occurs to me that Devon has probably started texting a bunch of dirty shit to me, not realising I don’t have my phone. I take a moment to wonder what he might be sending me, my mind snagging on my request for a video of him fingering himself.
I bolt upright, my lust-haze suddenly replaced with panic. No. Nope. No way. As unlikely as it is that Devon would actually send anything X-rated via text, I can’t afford to take any chances. If something like that were to fall into Natasha’s hands Devon would have no qualms about murdering me, burying me where no one would find me, and then digging me up a year later just for the satisfaction of shooting me all over again.
Okay, maybe he wouldn’t go tothoseextreme lengths, but I’m guessing that at the very minimum it would be a long while before I could expect another blow job from him, and that would be almost as bad.
Deciding to take some pre-emptive action, I jump out of bed and go in search of my laptop, finding it on the kitchen table. Then I type out a quick email.
