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Everything. No morning sex because he'd already brushed his teeth. No shower sex because of water conservation. No sounds above a whisper because of the neighbors.
He had you on a quota system? That's not a relationship, that's a timeshare agreement.
Exactly! And he'd finish in precisely four minutes then act like he'd given me the moon.
Four minutes? Christ. I’d spend longer than that just appreciating the way your body would respond before I even thought about coming.
I hit send, then stare at what I just wrote. "Your body." Not "a woman's body." I made it personal. I'm imagining her specifically, spread out beneath me, that emerald dress hiked up...
Oh.
Oh?
Just... processing the image of someone who actually takes their time.
Time is everything, sweetheart. Time to explore what makes you moan. Time to discover which spots make you forget your own name. Time to build you up slowly until you're begging me not to stop.
I'm fully hard now, sitting at my desk in the middle of the afternoon, fantasizing about a woman I've never met based on one photograph and a series of increasingly explicit texts.
This is insane. This could be anyone. This could be a catfish, some elaborate joke, a scam. I don't care. Right now, all I care about is her next response.
I need a minute.
Trying hard to deny my words make you wet but it's not working?
Oh my god. You're terrible.
I'm just getting started. Take all the time you need. I'll be here, looking at your photo and thinking about all the ways I could make good on those kitchen counter promises.
Three dots again. Then:
I should go. This is... a lot. But thank you for being unexpectedly accommodating to a stranger who accidentally sexted you.
I smile at the screen, oddly reluctant to let this conversation end.
The accidental sexting was my pleasure. Good luck with everything... including finding someone who knows exactly what to do against a wall.
After a moment's hesitation, I add:
And for what it's worth, anyone who makes you feel you need to be smaller isn't worth your time. The right person will want all of you—especially the parts that don't fit neatly into their life.
I set my phone down and turn back to my laptop, aware that I've said too much, revealed too much of myself to this unknown person. This strange interlude is over, and it's time to return to being the man whose name represents excellence and exclusivity in the fashion world.
But as I scroll through the résumés for the Creative Director position, I find myself wondering about the person behind those texts. Who is she? What does she do professionally? What parts of herself did she diminish to please this Camden idiot?
And why do I care so much?
When my phone buzzes again an hour later, I'm embarrassed by how quickly I reach for it. It's not the unknown texter, though—just my sister confirming dinner plans for the weekend.
I set the phone aside, telling myself I'm not disappointed. This was a brief, strange connection—the kind of random interaction that flares bright and fades quickly. Nothing more.
I don't expect to hear from her again. But for the first time in longer than I can remember, I hope that I do.
Because Roman Kade is used to getting what he wants.
And right now, I very much want to continue this conversation.
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