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“And now with some feeling, oki doki?” She folds her arms over her chest and runs her eyes up and down me. “Take a picture and send it to Ozzy.”

I look at her. “Really?”

“Really,” she says firmly. “Pro tip—if you want to keep your sex life a secret, don’t do it in a van. Everyone knows what that motion in the ocean means.”

I shoo her out so I can try on the other suits because I’m being a good sport, but before I can undress, my phone buzzes.

Ozzy’s clearly a fan: Holy shit. Can I come over?

Heh. Girl time is done , I text back.

I google “how to take a swimsuit selfie” and follow the directions.

They mostly consist of holding my phone up high overhead, smiling, and snapping.

My thumb’s over the camera with my first attempt, so I try again.

It’s not a sexy smile, but whatever. I send it.

My boobs look good. I try to ignore the flush of heat between my thighs.

Should I try one of the others? There’s a black terry cloth vintage-looking number, but the bottom seems a lot like a diaper cover. It claims to have amazing smoothing properties, though, and the top will perk up my girls.

I’m still debating when my phone buzzes with a picture from Ozzy.

He has his hand down the front of his board shorts.

They’re my favorite pair, hot pink with a pod of blue whales.

They’re ridiculously cute even if I do give him shit for having the taste of a preppy five-year-old.

Unlike any kindergartner, he’s sporting a massive erection.

He provides a caption for his photo in case I’ve missed the point: Mission accomplished?

I fire back: Is that you jerking off to my selfie?

The answer is an affirmative: Ten out of ten recommend!

I try to figure out from the photo where he is. Ur not on the beach, r u?

His response is a text asking, What kind of show-off do u think I am?

I point out that our ratings would go up and that we could probably get away with posting it “on accident.” There’s plausible deniability here.

Ozzy is not convinced. This text chain is now evidence.

Unfortunately, he makes a good point.

I switch tactics.

Okay. No NSFW content on the corporate Instagram. Although they totally deserve it.

I don’t like how they’re pressuring Ozzy to deliver content he doesn’t want to make.

I cup myself inside the swimsuit bottom, mimicking his pose.

It’s nowhere near as impressive because I’m at a natural disadvantage—clits are smaller than dicks—but the contrast between my wrist and the darker color of the swimsuit is nice, plus I push my wrist out to make the bulge bigger.

I’m almost laughing too hard to press Send.

This whole text chain is out of character for me.

Instead of flying off all alone into an uncharted galaxy, I’m voluntarily landing at a space station and hanging out at the cantina with a friendly alien.

Getting my freak on is fun . I decide to chalk it up as research for my new role as chief play officer.

Also, I’m sweaty and sticky inside this boutique, which just reminds me of other times I’ve been this…

wet. I snort-giggle. OMG. I’m telling myself dirty jokes in my head.

Ozzy sends me a picture of praying hands. Follow-up picture PLZ.

I opt to call him instead. Committing this kind of folly to the cloud would be folly. Hackers are everywhere.

“Panda.” He picks up immediately. It’s flattering.

If he doesn’t go back to surfing or something sports-adjacent (to quote his fuckwitted family), he could have an amazing career as a phone sex operator.

Or recording those security messages I hear in the airport: the train is stopping—please hold on .

“Are you jerking off to my swimsuit picture?”

He exhales roughly. His breath sounds like a stick swinging through the air. I giggle. Maybe a dick-stick? I amuse myself by thinking about Ozzy Wylder strolling naked down the beach, swinging his dick like a big club. It’s a fiesta in my brain.

“Maybe.” I can imagine his sexy smirk.

“How come you didn’t wait for me?”

More heavy breathing. Ozzy’s thinking about it, and now I’m thinking about him thinking about it, and we really need some private time tonight.

“I should have, huh?”

“Rude,” I agree. I can hear Rosie chatting up the salesgirl outside. They’re having a VIP conversation about triangle cups versus a push-up top. I’m guessing the salesgirl didn’t learn that in English class. It’s super impressive.

“I’m switching to video.”

I’m mostly on board with this plan, but: “Are you going to screenshot me and ruin my professional life at a later date?”

He groans and fumbles the phone. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.”

I’m not sure trusting him is a smart move.

Not only is the internet forever, but he could also run for president of the United States someday (everyone under ninety would vote for him), and then they’d dig up all his old phone records and my dinosaur self would be all over the internet.

I wouldn’t even get paid for it. Plus, this is the kind of thing that totally comes back to bite you in a job interview, which is what this road trip is.

And we’re work colleagues. Neighbors. So many reasons.

Nevertheless, I turn the video on.

This time the whooshing sound is my good intentions flying out the window.

“Model for me,” Ozzy says in his husky voice that makes my nerve endings demand an immediate end to celibacy. “Show me what you’re doing, Panda Bear.”

I realize I’m holding the phone up in front of my face. The screen’s practically touching my nose, so instead of a sultry shot, he’s just getting a close-up of my nostrils.

I pan it downward, trying to pretend the extreme facial close-up was all a part of my plan. Despite my lack of directorial experience, I manage a boobs close-up before going lower. I may toy with the waistband of the swimsuit.

“I’m going to have to buy this suit.”

“You totally should,” he groans. “You look amazing.”

“I’ve made it wet.” That’s not the sexiest way of phrasing what’s happening in regions south of my waistband, but it clearly works for him. He makes an appreciative noise, and his hand moves down. He’s inside our van, defiling the bed.

“You should come home.” He looks straight into the phone, but he’s running his hand down his hot body. I’m about to complain about the lack of follow-up action shot when he pans the phone down. There’s an impressive bulge in his board shorts that he palms. “We could help each other out.”

“Orgasm buddies.” I sound a little breathless, but I blame that on him. He slides his hand inside his shorts and wraps it around what he finds in there. I know firsthand that he feels amazing, so I’m jealous that he’s there and I’m here.

“Your turn,” he says huskily.

I give a microsecond’s worth of thought to the proximity of Rosie and the saleslady.

There’s some music playing on the store’s sound system that will cover up some sins on my part, but otherwise I’ll just have to be quiet.

Can do. Then I’m sliding my hand inside my swimsuit bottom and shifting the phone so Ozzy can watch.

“Pandora Fyffe,” he growls. “What are you doing?”

“You know what I’m doing.”

I infer from the rhythmic movement of his hand and the rocking of the bed that he’s doing it, too.

There’s only one possible response.

“Race you,” I dare.

I move my fingers farther down. In my head I’m remembering that night in San Francisco.

I think this is where I should dirty talk him, but I haven’t planned for that.

I’d need to figure out my lines before I’m distracted by the way his pupils blow wide, his lips part.

He fists his dick, stroking fast. He’s totally winning, and I don’t even mind.

I watch him work himself hard as I stroke a softer, gentler counterpoint that’s no less quick.

“Panda,” he groans.

“Ozzy.” I know his name, too. I know who I’m doing this with.

We get ourselves off to each other. It’s fast, so I stop worrying about our audience and I just feel good.

I’m not sure I do a good job keeping the phone on my business while viewing his, but it’s my first time.

There’s bound to be room for enhancements.

I come, squeezing my hand between my thighs, and I don’t know who’s first.

Rosie knocks on the door, and I have to put myself back together and go purchase the swimsuit I just defiled.

And then a few minutes later, he texts: Can’t wait to see you. Rematch?

I text back: Always.