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Ding.
A text banner drops from the top of my screen.
Olivia: I'll show you mine, if you show me yours. ;)
I suck in a breath and hold. Now that's how you get my attention.
My thumb hovers over the text, as I think back to the last time I was with Olivia. It's all a hazy blur of little talk and more action, if you know what I mean, aboard a private Gulfstream G650 on route to Miami six months back for a bachelor party. It was far from my first time joining the mile-high club, and it sure as hell wasn't hers, being that she's a flight attendant and it wasn't our first rodeo.
Olivia flies all across the world, working on different planes, some private, others commercial, and sometimes we just happen to be in the same area or aboard the same jet. We must've met on a flight... two years back? I don't know. But our conversations are always kept to a minimum. In fact, we probably haven't spoken more than ten words to each other, ever, save for occasional sexting.
Zero commitment, just how I like it.
Which is why, when I finally do click the message, the photo I'm met with comes as no shock.
My eyes trail from the only visible part of Olivia's face, her wicked smirk, down to the picture's focal point—her rack. A wet white T-shirt covers her unnaturally lifted breasts, leaving only so much for the imagination. Her nipples press taut against the thin fabric, just enough to make out their shape and color.
I don't hold back my groan.
Finally. Something to help tide me over.
My shirt's off in two seconds flat, leaving me in gray sweatpants with nothing underneath. I rip off the covers, bring the camera close to my face, and aim downward, revealing my body in all its glory.
And I do mean glory. I won't sugarcoat it. My physique is incredible. Plain and simple. This photo I'm about to take looks photoshopped, in more ways than one, and I'm not even showing my face. Just my deeply defined abs, gloriously sun-kissed skin, the magnificent city view as my backdrop inside a penthouse fit for a king, and most notably, my impressively large, perfectly proportioned, raging hard co—
...wait a minute.
I blink, noting the lack of activity down there. Squinting, I turn up my phone's brightness, zoom in and out in disbelief, even sway my head to the side, inspecting with my own two eyes, only to find a flat, underwhelming bump beneath my sweatpants.
That can't be right...
I bring up Olivia's photo again, confirming that my brain does, in fact, like what it sees. Once more, I study her breasts slowly, admiring their fullness and symmetry, wanting nothing more than to watch her peel off that pesky T-shirt.
When I'm practically foaming at the mouth like some horny teenager, I pull up my camera once more, grinning when I angle it—
Hey, what gives?
I bob my head to the left, then to the right, utterly flabbergasted at what's not going on in my pants.
Can this day get any worse?
I grumble, squeeze my eyes shut, and shove the dirtiest, most filthy memories of Olivia to the forefront of my brain. Ones where I'm taking her from behind inside luxurious bathrooms, forty-thousand feet high, bending her over the sink while her pencil skirt jumbles around her waist and panties pool at her feet. Her uniform's scarf coming quite handy in covering up all the marks I leave on her neck...
A low groan escapes me, as my hand sweeps down my core, delving beneath my waistband—
My eyes snap open.
I feel around, skin on skin. Dick, balls, everything. And by everything, I mean nothing. Nada. Zip. No erection, no rocket in my pocket, bone ranger, tent pole, saluting soldier, firm worm—whatever the fuck people call it is just not there.
My pulse spikes, beading sweat across my hairline. I'm twenty-four years old, built like a horse—an Arabian thoroughbred stud, specifically—with testosterone coursing through my veins, who's got a hot flight attendant on the phone, willing to show everything...
I should be like granite. Not a wet noodle.
Do I need to call a doctor or something?
Frustrated, I click back to her message.
I'll show you mine, if you show me yours. ;)
