by Max Monroe
My need to get the ball rolling as soon as possible is too strong to deny. The call switched over to speaker, I pull up our text chat and type out a message—How was your day, hubby?
Once I hit send, I say, “Okay. Check your text messages.”
“My day was fine,” he responds, and laughter barrels from my belly and straight past my lips.
“Flynn!” I giggle. “You’re supposed to text me your answer back. You know…for evidentiary support.”
“Right. I just have one question.”
“Of course! Go ahead!” I respond, kind of excited to be able to feel useful for once.
“Will Bruiser Woods be partaking in these conversations too, or is Elle the only split personality of yours I need to be on the lookout for?”
“Flynn!” I shriek, both tickled by his highly unexpected knowledge of all things Legally Blonde and slightly embarrassed by his teasing.
“Don’t you think it’s important that we show proof through text messages, too?” I ask him once my laughter subsides. “Phone calls are great—I mean, it will show Immigration that we stay in constant contact, but they won’t be able to see what’s said in our phone conversations. And in order to really sell it, I think they need to see the text conversations. Don’t you?”
“They need to see text conversations or fake text conversations showing we’re in love and shit?”
“Um, the latter.”
“But you want us to be on the phone, too?”
“Yes,” I answer.
But Flynn doesn’t say anything else. Not in text and not on the phone, and the silence makes my heart quicken its speed, uncertainty driving the pace.
God, he must think I’m a total nutjob, and he’s about to lose my number any minute. Or worse, turn me in to Immigration himself.
“Look, I know it’s weird and awkward to text each other while we’re on the phone, but…I need the buffer, you know?” I try to explain my intentions, even though I don’t really understand what I’m trying to achieve here. “This whole thing is making me freak out a bit…” Okay, a lot. “And I just don’t know what to say or do or how to show that we’re in love when we barely even know each other—”
“Check your messages.”
“What?” I ask, but a few moments later, a new text fills our chat.
Flynn: My day was pretty good, babe. How was yours?
“Oh.” Okay, so maybe he doesn’t think I’m a total nutjob. Just, like, a partial nutjob. Not put-her-in-a-padded-room nuts, more like, yes, she’s crazy, but it’s tolerable.
I don’t hesitate to type out a response to his message. Truthfully, I’ve been thinking about it for about seven out of the last twenty-four hours, so it’s pretty curated.
Me: It was good, but I miss you. I hate being this far away from you. I hate waking up and finding out that you’re not there. And going to bed without you beside me? Completely miserable. How many days until I’m in New York with you again? Because from where I stand, it feels like a thousand.
Flynn: I miss you too.
A sigh leaves my lips when I read his latest text. “No offense, Flynn, but you’re going to have to say more than a few words for this to work. I mean, we are supposed to be two people who are crazy about each other and miss each other and all the things, you know? Our text conversations should show love and excitement, but they should also show passion. We’re two people who desperately want to be together but have to be thousands of miles away. It’s going to look weird if I’m penning a novel of adoration and you respond with yeah.”
His hearty chuckles fill my ears, and I furrow my brow.
“Wait…are you laughing at me right now?”
“No offense, but you sound like an acting coach.”
It’s my turn to laugh, but my nerves turn it to hysteria pretty quickly.
I’ve never been one to spend time imagining my future husband, but I do know, if I did, it definitely wouldn’t have been like this, where my husband wasn’t even my husband at all but a man who made a commitment out of pity in order to help keep me from losing my job. It all feels kind of pathetic when I think about it.
“I’m sorry. I know I sound like a rambling psycho and I’m probably making no sense, but the importance of all this, of getting this visa and keeping my job, is making it hard for me to be rational.”
I shut my eyes and run a hand through my hair, but when Flynn says, “Check your messages,” into my ear once more, my focus is back on the screen of my phone.
Flynn: Do me a favor and tell me what you’re wearing right now, babe. In explicit detail, so I can imagine it perfectly.
A breath gets caught in my lungs, and I open and close my mouth several times in an attempt to form words. What the hell? Is he…is he sexting me?
“I can’t be sure…but…are you sexting me?”
“You want it to look real, right?”
Numbly, I nod, the words on the screen still burning into my eyes.
“I’m expecting a response,” he adds.
Okay, Daisy, you said you wanted this. Well, the ball is officially in your court…
I’ve never sexted with anyone in my life. Kind of sad, I’m sure, but true—I am a sexting virgin.
Maybe the only sexting virgin left on the planet at this point in the modern-technology age.
Don’t make a big thing out of it, Daisy. Just…sext him back.
I glance down at my clothes, and when I see that I’m still in the skirt and blouse I put on for work this morning, I decide that this isn’t nearly sexy enough for this conversation. And before I know it, I’m stripping out of my work clothes until I’m left wearing something that feels appropriate for the sexting cause.
An imaginary notification bings dramatically in my head: Libido has entered the chat.
New York
Flynn
Daisy: Your favorite white lace panties and a tank top.
If this conversation weren’t intended for fake purposes, those words would probably make me hard.
Me: Fuck, I want to taste you. I’m about ten seconds away from hopping on a plane to LA…
“Holy moly, that was really good,” Daisy whispers, almost like USCIS has our apartments bugged or some shit, and I have to work not to laugh audibly over the open line. “Like, really good. I don’t even know what to say to that.”
“Simple. Say whatever you think the Daisy who’s in love with her husband would say.”
“Okay…” she whispers, and when it sounds like her fingers are tapping across the screen of her phone, I wait patiently for her response. I’m just about to pull the phone away from my ear to look when she shouts, “Oh no! Oh my God! I didn’t want to send that! Ignore that one! Don’t look at that one!”
It’s too late, though; the text is already on the screen of my phone before she can stop it.
Daisy: I want to see your big penis.
When I read her response, I have to bite my lip over how fucking adorable and awkward it is. Almost as good as telling me I could call her while I’m rocking out with my cock out.
But also, that message, oddly enough, made you hard.
Me: If I were with you right now, where would you want my big cock? Between your pretty lips or inside your wet cunt?
Her breath hitches. But to my pleasant surprise, instead of dissolving into another hysterical spiral, she sends another message through.
Daisy: Both
Me: I need you to do something for me right now, babe.
Daisy: What?
Me: Slide your hand down your belly, beneath your panties, and push one finger inside your cunt so you can tell me how wet you are.
She moans a little into the phone, and my cock jerks.
Daisy: Wetter than the first night you fucked me on your kitchen counter.
Fuck me. The visual is immediate and potent. I couldn’t forget that night if I tried. Every moment, every memory, like how tight and perfect Daisy felt wrapped around my cock and how damn mesmerizing s
he looked when she came, is available for instantaneous recall.
Me: Pump your finger in and out of your perfect cunt. And each time you slide it out and back in, I want you to pretend it’s my cock filling you up.
Her soft moan bounces from the speaker, and my cock twitches beneath my boxer briefs.
I imagine her hips shifting to accommodate me as she works herself, and a throbbing ache starts to form below my stomach.
Okay, yeah, the soldier is officially at full attention.
And our pretend messages don’t feel at all pretend anymore. The drive to make her come is intense and overwhelming, and I know without a shadow of a doubt, I won’t be able to sleep without hearing it.
In the interest of keeping both of our hands free, I click my call over to speakerphone and lay the phone on the bed next to me.
“Your pussy is a perfect fit around my cock, Daisy,” I say, reaching into my boxer briefs to stroke myself lazily.
Her breath catches on my name, and I swear, all I need is one word to know all the things she’s thinking. Pleasure, excitement…panic over the fact that I’m switching up the carefully crafted plan from messaging to outright phone sex.
“Are you wet enough that my cock will melt, baby?” I ask roughly, wishing like fuck that I could feel the juice of her perfect pussy rather than the dryness of my hand.
“Oh yeah,” she hums, her words shifting from a moan to a groan. “Mm-hmm.”
“Tell me what I feel like, Daisy.”
“You feel…good. God, Flynn, I want to come so badly.”
“Then come. Don’t hold back. Don’t stop. Rub your clit while I fill your pussy up with my come.”
“Oh God. Oh yes! Oh shit, I’m coming so hard, Flynn.”
Pearly fluid shoots from my dick onto my hand, and I bite into the flesh of my bottom lip to soften my groan. It’s guttural, and if I let it fly at full strength, it’s sure to pull her out of the perfect bliss of her postorgasmic haze.
That’s the last thing I want to do.
Because my wife is finally calm—free from anxiousness and content enough to rest. And that’s exactly where I’d like her to stay.
“Goodnight, Daisy,” I say softly into the speaker.
Her giggle is soft and satisfied. “Um… Goodnight, Flynn.”
Yeah, it is a fucking good night, indeed.
Wednesday, April 17th, New York
Flynn
“Can I get you boys anything else?” our waitress asks, and Rem flashes a friendly wink at her that makes me roll my eyes. He plays the part of a lothario pretty well, but I know in actuality that my brother Rem is nearly celibate. Okay, maybe not celibate per se, but he’s way less active than he likes to portray, and I know it’s because his past still cuts deeper than he’d prefer.
Even if he’s grown up since Charlotte left him at the altar, even if he knows now that she wasn’t the right fit for him, the mark of an event like that changes a man. Changes his perspective on the amount of effort on love that’s worth it.
And as far as Remy’s concerned, he keeps his levels pretty close to zero. For the last decade or so, it’s actually been the thing we have most in common—careful, methodical, transactional-style relationships.
It feels a little weird to be sitting across from him now, given the state of my arrangement with Daisy, almost as though the universe has shifted.
“I think we’re all set. Thanks, Carol.”
“All right, honey. Just holler if you need anything.”
Carol heads back toward the kitchen, and I shake my head on a chuckle. Apparently, my eldest brother has become a regular at Don’s Diner since I brought him here a couple of years ago, and I had no idea.
“What?”
“Pretty friendly with the waitstaff, eh?” I retort, and he flashes me a small grin.
“Don’s has the best burgers in Brooklyn.”
I raise my eyebrows pointedly. That’s exactly what I told him on our first visit, and he practically told me to fuck off.
My my, how the tide changes when fuckers learn to not be such snobs.
Brooklyn used to be borough non grata with Remy a couple years ago when he thought it was all hipsters and young twentysomethings, and now it’s one of his favorite parts of the city. It also just so happens to be the one area where I hold a lot of rental properties. I dove into this real estate market about fifteen years ago, when everything was just on the cusp of booming but you could still buy properties for relatively low prices. As a result, I got a leg up on a lot of the revitalization crowd, and my properties generate a substantial portion of my income.
“What have you been up to anyway?” he asks. “I feel like I haven’t talked to you since Vegas. Hell, I feel like I didn’t talk to you all that much in Vegas.”
Oh, you know, just sending in immigration applications for my wife—that you don’t know about—and making arrangements for her to move to New York so we can keep up our relationship façade for the big interview in a few months…
“You were all too drunk in Vegas to talk clearly to anyone.” I shrug and make a point to change the topic of conversation to something that doesn’t make me have to lie to my brother. “How’s the market looking these days?”
“The market?” Rem looks up from the fresh plate of burger and fries the waitress just dropped off at our table, and his face turns amused. “Oh, so this lunch had stipulations.”
“Not stipulations,” I correct. “Multiple motivations.”
Rem laughs. “I should’ve known when you of all people suggested lunch, there was more to the story than shooting the shit.”
He’s not exactly wrong. Out of all of our siblings, I’m the least likely to make plans for lunch just to catch up. And it’s not because I don’t like spending time with my brothers and sister—I do. They’re my favorite people I know, actually. I just fucking hate small talk.
“I take it you’ve got some profits you’re wanting to dump?” he asks around a bite of French fries.
“Possibly.”
“How much are we talking?”
I pull my cell out of my pocket and shoot my accountant a quick message.
Me: What’s our excess for 2nd quarter?
He gets back to me pretty quickly.
Allen: $500,000.
I meet Rem’s eyes. “A decent amount.”
He sighs. “A decent amount can be anything, you fuck. How many figures we talking? Four, five, six?”
“Six.”
“Damn, bro. I should’ve invested in real estate when you told me to.”
I grin, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t think I’d dump it all in the market right now,” he says, switching from teasing brother to sage investor. If anyone knows the stock market, it’s Rem. “How much risk do you want to take with it?”
I shrug. “Moderate.”
“All right, I’ll look at a few things and email you some options I think will give the most return on your money,” he updates, but then he pauses, meets my eyes for a long moment, and laughs. “And to think, you went through all that college to become an engineer, and here you are…asking me about fucking stocks.”
“I still do engineer shit.”
“When exactly?”
“Whenever I go to my office.”
He laughs. “So, almost never.”
I just shrug and take a bite of my burger. He can think what he wants about my work life. I don’t really give a shit.
Truth be told, for the past six years, my passive income from real estate and investments has made it so I don’t have to work full time as an engineer, but I spent so much time building the company that it aggravates me too much when I think about walking away from it all. As long as I’m able, I’ll keep doing both.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to find three new messages from Daisy. The first two are pictures of a lamp and a couch, followed by What about these? Should I bring them?
We’ve been playing thi
s game for the past forty-eight hours, and I know it at least started as a way for her to breach the text message barrier formed by where we left off—with me telling her to use her fingers like my cock to stroke herself.
Her sending me pictures of random things in her apartment and me telling her she doesn’t need to bring them is a way to keep the lines of communication and evidentiary support for USCIS open and flowing without having to address the dripping wet pussy in the room.
Me: No.
Daisy: Are you sure? Because I could easily hire movers to transport from LA to New York…
A weird combination of a sigh and laugh escapes my lips.
“Who is that?” Rem asks, and I look up to find him staring at me curiously, but I just shake my head and type out a response.
Me: My apartment has furniture, babe.
“Dude. Seriously. Who are you texting?” he questions. “I sure as shit know your fucking accountant wouldn’t make you smile like that.”
“When he’s messaging me with high-profit numbers? He sure as fuck does.”
“Whatever,” Rem retorts. “This is a different kind of smile, and you know it. Who’s the girl?”
“My wife,” I answer simply with a flicker of eye contact.
“Oh yeah. Sure, Flynn. You’re just sitting here, texting your fucking wife,” he says, rolls his eyes, and laughs as if I just said the most absurd thing on the planet. And then, he just goes back to eating his burger as if I didn’t just tell him I have a wife.
Sure, it’s probably because he thinks I was joking, but this is me we’re talking about, not fucking Ty or Jude.
I don’t bullshit. Ever.
My phone vibrates again, and I check the screen to find another message from Daisy.
Daisy: Besides clothes and shoes, I feel like I’m hardly bringing anything, Flynn. What about dishes? Do you have enough dishes? Or glasses? How about silverware? No one ever has enough silverware.
I know her well enough by now to understand that she’s going to send me about six or seven additional rambling text messages before she’s finished.
So, I give her time to ask all the questions her little heart desires and go back to eating lunch with my brother. You know, the first person I’ve actually told that I’m married, and he doesn’t believe me.