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And then we let the silence linger between us because we both know what the next question will be. How?

* * *

Connor: Send me a picture of you.

Ava: Are you… are you asking for nudes? Because you can fuck right off, please and thank you.

Connor: Lol. No. I just don’t have any pics of you that aren’t taken from outside your bedroom window while you’re sleeping.

Ava: Dude…

Connor: Hi, I’m Connor. Pleased to creep you.

Connor: But seriously send me a pic. I don’t have any of you, and I want it as my home screen.

I bite down on my lip, scandalous thoughts running through my mind. In the month we’ve been together, we’ve not shared anything more than a slight touch to the wrong—or right—places. I switch off my bedroom light and turn on the lamp, then I get into bed, lower the thin strap of my tank top to reveal my bare shoulder. Eyes on the lens, I lick my lips, take a snapshot. I send it to him without a second thought.

Connor: Jesus Christ, Ava. That’s not home screen material, that’s…

Ava: You want another one?

Connor: Maybe move your top down a little more? Just an inch.

I comply, shifting until the neckline barely covers the top of my breasts. I take another photo, send it to him.

Minutes pass with no response.

Ava: Are you there?

Connor: Can I call you?

Ava: Yeah.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I quickly answer. “Give me a sec. I’ll just plug in my headphones.”

“Mmm.”

After grabbing my headphones from my nightstand, I connect them wirelessly and put one in my ear, needing the other free so I can hear the rest of the house. “What’s up?” I ask.

“Ava,” he says, his voice low. Rough. “I need you to send me another one.”

I swallow, knowing what he’s asking for. “You first.”

My phone vibrates almost instantly. He’s lying on his back, his hair a mess, eyes half-hooded. And he’s shirtless, his collarbone and muscled chest on full display.

“Your turn,” he insists, his voice barely audible.

I hesitate a beat, before lifting my shirt and angling the camera so my stomach and the underside of my breasts are in view. I quickly hit send, my body heating, pulse throbbing between my legs.

“Fuck, Ava,” he groans, his voice muffled by what I assume is his pillow. “You’re killing me.”

“Send me another one,” I whisper, gasping for air.

I hear him shift, and a moment later, his picture comes through. This one’s similar to the one I sent, an image of his perfect six-pack, each one defined by deep dips. There’s a scattering of dark hair between that V that drives women wild. It leads to a spot covered by the waistband of his boxers, an inch above his basketball shorts.

My mouth is dry. So dry. And I squeeze my legs together to try to increase the sensation there. I’m breathing heavy, so heavy I’m sure he can hear it. I force a swallow, try to regain some composure, but I can’t. My entire body is on fire, and I’m squirming, trying to find some form of reprieve from the powerful ache building inside me.

“Babe,” he says, but it comes out a moan. I can hear him shifting, moving, and I imagine him in his bed, eyes closed, chest rising and falling, his hand in his shorts… thinking of me. “Your turn.”