She typed, In your dreams. Her pulse raced, knowing his reply would be fast and dirty—and it was.
They’re fantasies, and you star front and center in all of them. Send me the pics from the other night.
God, she loved his brazenness as much as she feared it.
Did that make her like her mother?
The thought soured in her stomach.
She texted, I’m not going to be one of your spank-bank girls.
His reply was immediate. You’ve been my only spank-bank girl since the day we met. I’ve got pics of you burned into my mind in your sexy bikini, in those fancy outfits you wear, and in the skimpy shorts that make me want to bite your hot little ass.
She swallowed hard against the tug of desire low in her belly.
Rose’s voice trampled through her mind. Every woman should have a man who makes her tummy tingle as often as he makes her feel safe, valued, and loved.
Another message appeared with a picture of Justin lying on his side in a black tank top, his muscular, tattooed arms on display. His head was propped up with his hand. His hair was sexily messy, and his eyes were at half-mast, clearly conveying, Come on, heartbreaker, you know you want me.
She couldn’t take her eyes off him. How could he make her feel hot and bothered with only texts and a picture? And why did she want to play so badly when she worried it was the absolute wrong thing to do? Rose was a wise woman. Maybe she was right about not keeping such a black-and-white list of must-haves for the men she went out with. Chloe had come up with that list more than a decade ago, after the awful incident outside the Salty Hog her second year of college. She’d been dating only men who fit that list for so long, she was afraid to live any other way.
Another message bubble appeared. Dream about me tonight, sexy girl, because I’ll be fantasizing about you.
Good Lord. This was a terrible idea. There was no way she would be able to think of anything but him for the rest of the night.
Well played, Wicked. Well played.
Chapter Seven
THE DAYS FLEW by, peppered with a mix of lustful anticipation and anxiety caused by a certain hot biker with a filthy mouth. Justin texted Chloe every night with something flirty and dirty, like Know what time it is? When she took the bait, he’d responded with Chloe o’clock. I’m sifting through my mental images. What are you in the mood for? An ass bite or something more sensual? Or he’d text something less blatant, like Busy? When she said she was working on the wedding album, or anything else, he’d texted, I can feel you thinking about me. Can you feel me touching you?
The man knew exactly how to get to her. Not only couldn’t she stop replying to his messages, but she looked forward to them. She’d been wrong about texts and foreplay. It was a very effective method. Thank goodness he hadn’t texted her when she was meeting with the board earlier in the day. That would have been embarrassing. She’d have had to lock herself in her office with his picture and finish herself off. What was happening to her? She’d never been a sexter. She knew she needed to put a stop to the texts, or he’d probably think he could jump her bones the next time he saw her. But it was Thursday afternoon, and she was still at work. With the start of the new Junior/Senior Program, and the rest of Chloe’s administrative duties, she had no time for hot or bothered. Now was not the time to think about, much less try to disengage from, the dirty talker who was weaseling his way into her every thought.
As she made her rounds that afternoon, talking with residents and checking on the men and women who were taking part in the Junior/Senior Program, her thoughts turned to her mother. Years from now, would she and Serena be making decisions about putting their mother into a facility like LOCAL? Chloe had been hurt and angry enough Sunday to answer that question with a complete and total shun of those responsibilities, but it had been several days, and she’d had time to calm down about the fiasco that had been their morning. The truth was, she knew herself better than that.