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Me: I keep thinking about your hands.

Dalton: Where?

I hesitate for exactly one second.

Me: On my thighs.

Dalton: I wanted them higher.

I press my face into the pillow for a second and breathe.

This is a bad idea.

This is a terrible idea.

This is also the first time all day I have felt something other than scared.

Me: Dalton.

Dalton: Yes.

Me: You can’t text me things like that.

Dalton: I can stop.

I look at the message.

That’s the worst part. He means it. If I tell him to stop, he will.

So if I keep going, I can’t pretend it happened to me.

I type: Don’t stop.

The reply comes faster this time.

Dalton: Tell me what you want.

I close my eyes. My hand rests over my stomach for a second, then moves away. I don’t know why that matters, only that it does.

Me: I want your mouth on me again.

The message sends. My heart pounds while I wait.

Dalton: Where?

I make a soft, helpless sound into the blanket.

Me: You know where.

Dalton: Say it.

My face burns.

Me: Between my legs.

The dots appear. Disappear.

Then: Good girl.