I stare at the screen for several seconds…minutes. I don't know.

The only thing I know is that nothing like this ever happens to me.

And then I realize it's not really happening to me. These dirty words are meant for someone else.

This man obviously misdialed.

But I can't stop reading and rereading the words.

Over and over.

Naked and hard.

Like the man in my book.

I should delete it. I should delete this text, turn my phone off and walk away.

But I can't.

I can't and I don't know what that means.

Well, I do know what that means. Secretly, somewhere deep inside me, I know what I want to do. I shouldn't do it, obviously. But the fact that I shouldn't only makes me want to so much more.

So much.

So very much.

Quickly, with trembling fingers that almost can't type, I respond.

How drunk is a little drunk?

The moment I send the text, I feel a rush of adrenaline. I haven't felt this excited in so long. Years. It's been years.

But I also feel a pang of guilt for my behavior. What do I expect to come from this? This man is obviously involved with someone else. That text was meant for her…or him. Yes, I reread the text again. There is nothing that leads me to believe that this was absolutely meant for a woman. A man could want him naked and hard.

Just as I'm writing him off as a fierce gay man who probably has a drag queen name and more glitter on his hard body than Ke$ha, the screen of my phone illuminates and pings with another incoming message.

And I look.

I have to.

Not so drunk that I don't know I want you naked with me.

I shiver at the blatant way he says things. And I think about the power of words. I read. A lot. And while I feel like I should be ashamed that I find these crass, blunt words arousing, I know that I'm not. Well, not really.

I keep my phone in my hand and I head back over to the couch.

Am I really doing this?

Am I really going to do this?

My internal struggle is a façade. It's only real enough to allow me some dignity when this is all over.

I want to text him.

I want to flirt.

I haven't flirted in ages. And in person, it's always awkward. My nerves always get the best of me and it never comes across the way I envision it in my mind. But just like my purchases on Amazon, this is anonymous. I can do this without fear of embarrassment.

Without fear of rejection.

I'm not naked.

I send.

Yet.

I add quickly and send immediately after.

I smile. It spreads across my face. I feel excitement and warmth in my cheeks. My heart is pounding, pounding, pounding. I curl my legs under myself, and hold my phone in my lap. My eBook has fallen to the side.

Forgotten.

Because even though I know this isn't really real – it's more real than the fictional words about fictional people.

And this is about me.

Me…and whoever this is.

And just like that, the screen lights up. A small sound, a subtle vibration against my leg that causes me to shiver.

And what will it take to get you naked?

.

.

.

A/N

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