Kiss Me Box Set

by Hart, Emma

  He thrust into me, picking up his speed with each stroke of his cock. I trembled everywhere, yet I couldn’t relinquish my grip on him. I needed to keep hold of him to ground me as he moved, drawing my pleasure closer to the surface with each jerk of his hips.

  Over and over he did it, pushing me further to the brink and dragging himself there, too.

  Until it was too much.

  And I couldn’t hold on any longer.

  My whole body tightened, going rigid. I cried out, right as Preston groaned, burying himself deep inside me. His breath was hot as he dropped his head to my shoulder, his exhale dancing over my collarbone.

  I sagged, finally relaxed, and dropped my hand behind me to hold me up.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathed, loosening his hold on me.

  I laughed, exhausted. “That about sums that up.”

  “Shit.” He pushed himself up. He met my eyes with shining ones, and the smile that crossed his face flashed for only a second before he kissed me again.

  Stepping back, he pulled out of me and reached for one of the clean towels on the side of my coffee table. I motioned with a tired finger for one, too, and he tossed one my way.

  “Well, that was fun.” He grinned, cleaning himself off.

  I hopped off the counter and stuffed the towel between my legs. “Yeah,” I sighed. “But now I have to disinfect the counter.”

  “Doesn’t being an adult suck?”

  I glanced back at the counter, then at him. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, naked except for the towel grasped around his dick and the pants around his ankles.

  I smiled. “Eh. It was worth it.”

  EPILOGUE

  * * *

  HALLEY

  Dick Pics For Everyone

  Two Months Later

  “Look at it!” Reagan shoved her phone in my direction. “Look!”

  “I don’t”—I dodged her enthusiastic shoving—“want to!”

  “I’ll look,” Ava said, leaning over. She grabbed the phone and tilted it in her direction. “Not bad. Good size. Length and girth. Probably a good handful.”

  Oh, my God.

  “You’re in a library!” I hissed. “You can’t go flaunting unwanted dick pics everywhere!”

  “This wasn’t unwanted,” Reagan corrected me. “It was accidental. A wrong number dick pic.”

  “I don’t care how it came to be in your possession. I don’t want to see it.” I took the book on the top of the stack on the cart and put it back on the shelf where it belonged. “Did you tell him he’d sent it to the wrong person?”

  “Yes. I told him he got the wrong number, but he had a pretty nice dick, so it was okay.” She finally put her phone away and followed me.

  “There’s no such thing as a nice dick,” I replied. “They’re all ugly. Even your brother’s.”

  “La la la la la!” She put her fingers in her ears.

  Ava snorted. “She had that coming.”

  I nodded sharply. “I don’t get it. You don’t know the guy. He apologized, right?”

  Reagan clicked her tongue. “Yep. I told him it was fine.”

  “Reagan, that is not the correct response to a dick pic. Preston sent me one last week, and I told him to fuck off.” I put another book on the shelf and tidied a couple that were out of order. “Nobody likes dick pics.”

  “You’re forgetting who you’re talking to,” Ava said. “Didn’t you once ask for a dick pic when you were on that dating app?”

  “Yeah, but they banned me.” Reagan paused. “To be honest, I asked because he looked like he had a small one, and those guys can be deceiving. Plus, this guy is really nice.”

  “You’re still texting him?”

  “Yeah. He thanked me for being cool about it because most girls wouldn’t be. I told him how to get a better angle and asked why he was sending it.”

  “Oh, hell,” Ava muttered.

  I didn’t know what to say to that. That could only happen to Reagan. Literally nobody else would ever do those things.

  “So are you, like, friends now?” I asked, putting the now-empty cart off to the side.

  “No. I have no idea what his name is.” She examined her nails. “I didn’t give him mine, either. No idea what he looks like or who he is.”

  I stared at her, and so did Ava.

  “I know people think Halley is the weird one here, but you are really quite strange,” Ava said slowly, a furrow forming on her forehead.

  “Hey!”

  “Yeah, no, she’s right.” I raised my eyebrows. “So what are you going to do? Just keep texting this nameless, faceless, unknown man with the relatively nice dick until…”

  “Until I get bored, I guess. That, or I have a one-night stand with him and recognize his cock.” She shrugged. “He’s a nice guy. We actually have a bit in common.”

  We took the stairs in single file to avoid the teens heading up to the study area for the weekly chemistry study session.

  “Hey,” Ava said brightly when we reached the bottom.

  Reagan and I stopped.

  “What?” Reagan asked.

  “Have you considered that we might know the guy whose penis that is?”

  Reagan froze, her eyes going wide as reality sunk in. “No,” she said. “No, no, no, no. I’m not going to believe that. Ava, why would you do that to me?”

  She shrugged, but her eyes were full of mischief. “It just occurred to me. I mean, who is he? Is he even legal? Is he young and hot? Or is he the limping janitor at the high school?”

  Reagan looked like she was going to throw up.

  I laughed and turned around. “I am so glad I didn’t look at that picture.”

  “No, no, no,” Reagan muttered. “No!”

  I met her eyes. “You’re just gonna have to ask him, aren’t you?”

  “Fine. I’ll do it right now. He is not the limping janitor from the high school!” She pulled out her phone and tapped furiously on the screen. “There. Done.”

  She showed us the screen and yep. It was there.

  REAGAN: By the way, who the hell are you?

  KISS ME TONIGHT

  Emma Hart

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  REAGAN

  Viva La Peen

  There was a cock on my phone screen.

  No, not a picture of my brother, although that would have been the appropriate introduction for such a thing.

  Not a rooster or cockerel or whatever those cock-a-doodle-doo bastards were called.

  An actual cock.

  A dick.

  A peen.

  A pork sword.

  A semen lollipop.

  A jizz teat.

  A sperm worm.

  A cum gun.

  An honest-to-God fucking penis.

  Attached to an honest-to-God man.

  Who had the honest-to-God wrong motherfucking phone number.

  This wasn’t how most Monday mornings started. I didn’t want to drink my coffee with a side of dick pic, thank you very much. I wanted it with a side of hot, buttered toast, or maybe a shot of something stronger if it was that kind of Monday.

  It was not that kind of Monday.

  Yet.

  It was pretty damn close.

  I blinked at my phone screen as I stirred my coffee. I’d never received one of these before. I counted myself lucky, given the… liberties… people took with the internet these days.

  How did this happen?

  Was this one of those situations where a wrong number had been given out at the bar? Or was it a genuine mistake?

  I didn’t understand how people could make genuine mistakes with numbers.

  Did nobody save to their contacts list anymore?

  Let me tell you, if I was going to send a picture of my boobs to someone, I wouldn’t be typing their number in. I’d be performing an FBI-level check-up on a suspicious person.

  I probably also wouldn’t be sending a photo of my boobs to anyone
in the first place.

  I digress.

  What was the appropriate course of action here? I mean, it was seven in the morning and I had to drink my shower, take a coffee, and get to work in an hour.

  Wait.

  That was wrong.

  Drink my coffee, take a shower, and get to work in an hour.

  That’s better.

  See? It was too early to be contemplating the correct response to a wrong-number dick pic.

  Was there a correct response?

  Was no response the right response?

  This was the kind of adulting high school severely lacked in teaching you. Debating the existence of God has never once helped me pay my taxes, cut my grocery bill, or work out my budget.

  Or, as it turns out, handle a dick pic.

  Jesus Christ, I’d thought the words ‘dick pic’ far too many times this morning.

  I was going to need therapy after this.

  I locked my phone and put it screen-down on the table in front of me. I needed to shower instead of think about this for a moment.

  I honestly believed that there wasn’t a problem that couldn’t be solved in a hot shower.

  I finished my coffee and headed into the bathroom. After I turned on the shower, I brushed my teeth, and when the room was suitably filled with steam, I stripped off and climbed in.

  The hot water beat down on me, slicking my long, purple hair to my neck and back as it soaked it through. I closed my eyes and ran my fingers through my hair, and then reached for the shampoo.

  As I massaged it in, my mind wandered back to the situation at hand. The easiest thing to do would be to wrinkle my nose up and delete it, then move on with my life. Maybe block the number.

  Did the sender know they’d sent it to the wrong person? I know you can’t exactly take back a text message, but I’d like to think that most people would apologize when they realized they’d sent such a personal picture to the wrong person.

  So… Chances were, he had no idea he’d gotten the wrong number.

  I rinsed the shampoo from my hair.

  So, I had two options, didn’t I? Delete it, act like it never happened, and hope that he never texted me again. Or I could send him a quick message that said ‘sorry, wrong number, have a nice day!’

  And move on.

  I finished in the shower after conditioning my hair and soaping my body and got out. Condensation had my mirror all foggy with droplets running down it, so I wrapped myself in towels and left, making sure to crack open the window so it could dry out.

  I dried off and got dressed in leggings and a loose, button-down shirt, then pulled my wet hair up into a twisted bun on top of my head.

  I’d made my decision about what to do with this text message somewhere between my underwear getting stuck on my wet shins and almost hitting my elbow on my dresser.

  I was going to send him a nice text telling him about his mistake.

  I’d want to know.

  I snatched my phone up from the table and unlocked it. The message flashed up instantly, and I hit the reply box.

  ME: Hey, sorry, but you’ve got the wrong number.

  Then, with my conscience cleared and the knowledge that I’d performed my good deed for the day, I left my apartment headed for the florist store where I’d worked for the last ten years.

  ***

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cooper! I’ll see you next week.” I smiled as the elegant lady in her late fifties waved goodbye with her weekly bouquet of lilies in hand.

  “See you then, honey!”

  The bell above the door dinged twice, once when she opened it and again when it swung shut behind her. The blast of late-summer heat from the outside was unwelcome, but it quickly dissipated as my air-conditioning ate it up.

  This was probably the coldest store in town, but I think that was probably the reason why everyone came in during the summer. Sales were up, and it wasn’t just because homecoming season was coming up.

  People came into escape the southern heat, then ended up buying things.

  I wasn’t against using the weather to sell flowers.

  We sold them for dead people, so…

  I checked my phone, but the mystery picture sender still hadn’t replied. It was two in the afternoon, so they were either too embarrassed to respond, or they hadn’t seen it yet.

  With a sigh, I put my phone back under the counter. I figured I’d keep the text for a day or so before deleting it, just in case he did reply. Knowing me, I’d forget it tomorrow and end up with a random text I couldn’t put into context.

  The bell rang again, and I looked up in time to see Halley and Ava at the door. They were both wearing running clothes and had water bottles in their hands, but their expressions couldn’t be more different.

  Halley was a little winded, with pink cheeks and a smirk on her lips.

  Ava, on the other hand… Well, wisps of her black hair were stuck to her face with sweat. She resembled a tomato, more than anything, and I could feel the murderous vibes that radiated off her.

  She stormed past me and went through to the back. There was a clunk as the refrigerator door opened, and I raised my eyebrows as a huge, “Ahhhhh!” filtered through the building.

  I turned and met Halley’s eyes. “I see running is going well.”

  “About as well as a dumpster fire.” She lifted her bottle and took a long drink. “She is not a runner. She’s worse than you.”

  “I can run. I just don’t like to.” I pulled my stool beneath me and sat down. “How long is she going to stand in my refrigerator?”

  Halley shrugged, sitting on one of the spare stools in front of the counter. “Presumably until she realizes it’s just as cool out here and she can sit down here.”

  “What happened today?”

  “The sun,” she replied dryly. “It’s her day off, so instead of getting up to run before work like we normally do, she slept in. She refused to run tonight when it’s cooler, so…” She motioned up and down her body. “Apparently, Ava doesn’t like sweating.”

  “Ava doesn’t like anything.”

  “I heard that.” There was a clunk as the fridge door shut again. Ava emerged from the back, still looking as if she’d run a four-minute-mile, and wiped the bottom of her tank top over her face. “I like plenty of things, but running in the heat isn’t one of them.”

  Unbothered, Halley said, “I told you to wake up early this morning.”

  Ava looked at her. “We might have to break up.”

  I laughed when Halley rolled her eyes. Since they’d started running a few weeks ago, Ava had threatened it at least twice a week.

  It was yet to happen.

  “Hey, you guys—”

  Halley’s phone rang, cutting me off. “Sorry. Hold on.” She stood to pull it out of the zip pocket in her yoga pants and answered it. “Hello? Yeah—no, shut up… For the love of God, she’s supposed to be supervised! … Ugh, fine. I’ll be there soon.”

  I shared a look with Ava.

  Halley hung up and looked at us. “My grandmother escaped and is terrorizing the village.”

  I fought a smile. Ever since she’d made the choice to move back in with Halley’s dad and stepmom, Margaret Dawson had made as much of a nuisance of herself as she possibly could without getting arrested.

  Given that my great-aunt Bethel and her partner in crime were also now living back in Creek Falls, there was only one way to put it.

  We were all fucked.

  Halley looked at Ava. “My car is parked a couple blocks away. Do you want a ride home?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. I just need to use the bathroom before we leave. Give me a second.” She slid off the stool and headed for the back.

  Ava looked at me. “Hey, Reagan, weren’t you going to say something before Halley’s phone rang?”

  “I forgot,” I lied, lifting my shoulders in a slight shrug. Right then, the store phone rang. “Hi! This is the Wright Bouquet, Reagan speaking. How can I help
you?”

  The woman on the end said she needed a bouquet for her grandma’s eightieth birthday to be delivered to her front door. I confirmed that we could absolutely do that and waved goodbye to Reagan and Ava when they left halfway through the call.

  It took ten minutes, but we eventually narrowed down the selection options. I wrote down her email and promised I’d send example photos over as soon as I could. She thanked me profusely before hanging up.

  I pulled my cell out from beneath the counter to email her. A new message was on the screen from a number I recognized from this morning, and I pressed my fingerprint against the screen to unlock it.

  DICK GUY: Shit, I’m so sorry. Sorry if it offended you in any way.

  I raised my eyebrows. It took a lot more than a dick picture to offend me. I hit the reply box to assure him it was fine.

  ME: Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen worse dicks. Yours is pretty nice, as far as dicks go.

  Was that a little forward?

  Maybe.

  But he’d started it, so…

  DICK GUY: LOL. Thanks. As far as dicks go, I’m pretty proud of it.

  ME: You should be. Although your picture-taking angle is a little off. Hold the phone flatter against your stomach for maximum effect.

  DICK GUY: Thanks for the tip. I don’t usually send these kinds of pictures, so that’s the last time I use online dating apps after watching a football game with the guys.

  ME: Yeah. Bad idea, dude. I’m guessing she gave you the wrong number.

  DICK GUY: Unless you’re the blonde girl I was chatting to at 2am, yeah.

  ME: Not even close. My hair is purple.

  DICK GUY: Thank fuck for that.

  DICK GUY: Anyway, again, I’m really sorry… apologize to your boyfriend or husband or whoever for me.

  ME: Nobody to apologize to. I’m single. It was an honest mistake.

  DICK GUY: You’re being pretty nice about this.

  ME: Like I said, nice dick. *shrug emoji*

  DICK GUY: Six billion people in the world, and the person I sent it to is someone who compliments me. LOL. Thank you.