Page 96 of Josephine and Clay

Clay: Then tell me what it feels like. Tell me how wet you are.

I slide my hand underneath, fingers skimming sticky skin, two points of contact at once. One real, one memory.

The ache surges up my body, so intense it almost makes me angry.

Josie: I’m as drenched as that night.

Clay: You always were greedy.

His texts always land in the right spot, dirty and just a touch funny, like he doesn’t know he’s allowed to want things this much, but he’s going to anyway.

I fuck myself slow, thumb circling, phone trapped in my other hand, focus split in a way that feels dangerous.

Clay: Are you in your room?

I hesitate, just long enough for my pulse to spike, for the heat to bloom where my neck meets my jaw. My hair is still damp from the shower, the sheets half kicked down. If I inhale, it’s all clay dust and chlorine and the impossible memory of his skin.

Josie: Yes. In bed. Touching my clit.

Clay: Fuck. Wish I could see you. Are your thighs shaking yet?

Josie: Not yet.

Clay: Bet I could make you. Bet I could get you there in under two minutes, easy.

He might be right. He usually is. My hand works, slow and mean, refusing to escalate.

I want more, want everything, want him on his knees and me in his hands, but I can’t admit that. Even now, with the entire world reduced to a blue-lit phone screen and the curling of my hips on the mattress, I can’t admit it.

I want him to hear every whimper. More, I want him to want it, want me, just as badly.

He keeps going.

Clay: Want you to spread your legs wide, Jo. Want your whole hand on your pussy. Need you loud.

I bite the inside of my cheek until it almost bleeds, but my hand obeys, two fingers plunging in while my thumb holds relentless pressure.

The phone sags in my grip, and I hear my own voice, high and shuddering, with no one to muffle it except the memory of his teeth on my throat.

Josie: Fuck, almost there.

A video call comes through.

His name flashes across the screen, and my stomach twists hard.

Shit.

For a second, I just stare at it.

At the secret sitting between us.

At the tiny lives he still knows nothing about.

I should decline it. I should tell him the truth before this goes any further.

Instead, I thumb accept without thinking, and there he is, all forehead and the too bright light of a lamp, the camera jittery as he shifts to prop himself up on an elbow.

“Jeez,” he says, “didn’t think you’d pick up.”