Reveal (A Wild Nights Novel)

by K. M. Golland

  Mr Happy: You know as well as I do, love,

  that no one can help you fuck yourself like I can

  He was right. H was the best type of friendly finger-porn.

  Em: Then what are you waiting for?

  Mr Happy: You’re being a bad girl tonight.

  Are you sure you want this?

  I may have to punish you.

  Just the thought of H punishing me provoked a sweet buzz between my legs, so I slid my hand down my stomach and under the water’s surface, stopping when my fingertips skated across my clit. I pressed down lightly and slowly massaged, moaning and biting my lower lip.

  Mr Happy: You’re touching yourself already, aren’t you?

  You’re always quiet when your fingers are in your cunt.

  I read the message and smirked. He was so deliciously dirty. And his ability to read me without seeing, smelling or touching me was freakishly uncanny. H just knew me.

  Awkwardly pushing the buttons on my keypad with my thumb while holding the phone in the same hand, I responded.

  Em: Yes, I am.

  What are you going to do about it?

  Punish me?

  Mr Happy: Yes.

  Em: Go ahead.

  There was pause for a minute, then my phone beeped. A picture appeared on the screen, a picture of a cock, a picture of H’s cock … in his hand. It was sleek and hard, his crown swollen and tinted purple, engorged and ready to burst. It looked fucking yummy. Holy shit! H! No!

  It wasn’t the first time he’d sent a cock pic, and it wouldn’t be the last. The first time was not long after we’d moved our sexting from my work interface to our phones, and he’d done it to provoke a pussy pic from me in return.

  It hadn’t worked.

  My pussy was camera shy.

  Instead, I’d threatened to ban his number, which had made him behave … until the second time, which was my fault. I’d dared him while under the influence of alcohol, and he’d proved he was not one to refuse a dare.

  Yep. My bad.

  The third and fourth times … well, I was horny as hell and had actually appreciated the visual assistance. And since then, I’d only ever received one when he felt he had the upper hand and would get away with it. Like now. Cheeky prick.

  Licking my lips as I took in his pic, I continued to swirl my pointer finger over my clit in slow, glorious circles.

  Em: You call that punishment?

  Mr Happy: Yes.

  Because you know how good it would feel in your mouth

  in your cunt

  up your arse.

  Wow! He’s really bringing it tonight. Excellent!

  Em: No, I don’t. But I want to.

  Pump it harder for me, babe.

  I want to lick that tasty

  pre-cum that’s all over your hands.

  I scrolled back up to his pic using the pad of my thumb, and hummed at the sight of his glistened hand. It was coated in him. I gulped. Even his tattoo—a small skull at the base of his thumb—was wet and shiny. You could tell his ink was old, because it had bled and faded. It was a simple skull design, and its position and the dark and dangerous nature of the symbol had piqued my curiosity once before. But I’d never asked him about it. Never acknowledged it. And that was because he should never have sent me his dick pics in the first place.

  Mr Happy: Mmm …

  The things you do to me, love.

  I want to fuck that pretty little mouth of yours.

  Hold your head.

  Fist your hair.

  Drill my cock into the back of your throat.

  I swallowed, hard, practically feeling his hand on my head, his dick in my mouth, and the tears springing from my eyes as my gag reflex fought his strength. I could feel him, but not really—such a strange sensation. But I never would really feel him, so instead, I felt myself. I felt myself with an arduous twitch of my finger, the sweet tingle in my clit escalating rapidly.

  Em: Keep going.

  Almost there.

  My hips bucked against my hand, sloshing water all over the bathroom floor. Fuck it. I didn’t care. I was beyond caring, too close to the point of no return. The point where the world could be crumbling down around me; the earth dividing at my feet; buildings disintegrating to the ground, and all that mattered was my teetering orgasm, that pending burst of pleasure driving me to the brink of insanity or perhaps ecstasy. That was all that mattered, and it was all that mattered when my phone beeped once again.

  Mr Happy: Bring it home, sexy girl.

  Strum your fucking perfect clit like a guitar.

  Let go and moan your delicious music.

  I did what I was told and strummed. I strummed as if I were Eddie Van Halen playing “Eruption”, and boy did I erupt. I erupted with an explosion of pleasure, my orgasm hitting me full force. My body thrashed in the water and I cried out, nearly dropping my phone as I rode the out heavy pulses waving through me.

  Oh. My. God! What a finger sesh! And I hadn’t even used BOB. Wow! BOB should be jealous.

  Slowing my breathing, I opened my eyes and typed back to H.

  Em: Thank. You. xo

  Mr Happy: That better?

  Em: Yeah. But hang on a minute …

  Scrolling back to his guitar message and reading it once more now that I was lucid, I laughed, but was equally impressed at his choice of prose.

  Em: “Strum your fucking perfect clit like a guitar”?

  And

  “Let go and moan your delicious music”?

  Wow! Those are pretty words, babe.

  Mr Happy: You like?

  I was looking at my guitar while stroking my cock.

  It just came out that way.

  He’s a musician? He’s never told me that before.

  Em: You play the guitar?

  Mr Happy: Sure do.

  Em: Nice. I didn’t know that.

  Mr Happy: You never asked.

  Em: True.

  Mr Happy: So what’s wrong?

  Em: What do you mean?

  Mr Happy: Something must be up.

  You don’t normally need me like THAT.

  One thing that I could categorically state about H was that he never missed a beat. Pun unintended. He’d always been extremely intuitive, from the very beginning of our communications. I didn’t know why; perhaps I was an open book where he was concerned. He’d figured out my struggle with depression earlier on without pushing for information I hadn’t been ready to give him. H was definitely tactful when required and blunt when needed.

  Em: I guess not. Sorry.

  Mr Happy: Hey! I’m not complaining.

  But what’s up? What happened?

  Em: I like Brad.

  I like him more than I normally like guys.

  Mr Happy: Who’s Brad?

  Em: One of the guys I’m hanging with.

  Mr Happy: One of the strippers?

  Em: Yes. And let it be known I’m rolling my eyes at you.

  Mr Happy: Why? I haven’t done anything.

  And are you sure?

  Em: I can hear the sarcasm in your words.

  And sure about what?

  Mr Happy: No sarcasm here. It’s all in your head.

  And are sure that you like him

  and not just because he’s a stripper?

  Em: NO! It has nothing to do with him being a stripper.

  Mind you, we both kinda do the same thing, right?

  Mr Happy: No. He takes his clothes off in front of women.

  You take your clothes off at home.

  I’d say that’s different.

  Em: I didn’t mean it like that.

  I meant that we both earn money by getting people off.

  Mr Happy: Hmm …

  Fair point.

  So, what’s different about dancer boy?

  I laughed out loud.

  Em: Ha ha!

  BRAD makes me feel lots of different things.

  I never feel lots of different things.

  Only
some things.

  Mr Happy: What kind of different things does BRAD make you feel?

  Sighing, I closed my eyes and recalled the moments we’d been together the past couple of days, and how’d I felt. I opened my eyes and typed back.

  Em: I don’t know. Warm. Fuzzy. Safe.

  Mr Happy: So he makes you feel like a soft toy?

  I laughed out loud again, this time sloshing more water on the floor.

  Em: Stop it. Stop making me laugh.

  There’ll be no water left in the bath.

  But no, smartarse, he makes me feel good.

  I like him. A lot.

  Mr Happy: So what’s the problem?

  Em: Exactly that.

  I don’t want to hurt him. Disappoint him.

  Mr Happy: And what makes you think that will happen?

  Em: I have depression, H.

  You know this.

  You’ve bared the brunt of my mood swings.

  I also sext for a living.

  Mr Happy: You’re a woman. You all have mood swings.

  Stop worrying.

  You’ve only just met him.

  It probably won’t go anywhere.

  My heart sunk in my chest. Stupid heart. Yet H was probably right.

  Em: Thanks for the vote of confidence.

  I guess you’re right.

  Mr Happy: Look, love,

  I’m only going by your track record.

  But if you’re asking me if I think you’re good enough,

  then you already know the answer to that.

  I think you’re amazing.

  I think you’d make any man happy.

  I know you’d make me happy.

  You DO make me happy,

  and could make me happier.

  My heart climbed back up from its sunken spot in my chest and began to pound a little harder. I wish he wouldn’t say things like that. He knew I couldn’t be with him. For one, he lived on the other side of the country. And two, I’d always felt I was largely at fault for him not getting back together with his ex-wife. I’d tried desperately to ignore his messages during that time, tried to give them space to reconcile their differences, but H wouldn’t leave me be, and deep down I hadn’t wanted him to. I’d needed him.

  A lone tear escaped my eye and fell to my cheek. I wiped it away and typed back through my blurred vision.

  Em: Don’t.

  Mr Happy: Don’t what?

  Tell you how I feel about you? Why not?

  Em: Because it doesn’t matter.

  Mr Happy: How can you say that, love?

  Of course it matters.

  Em: No. It doesn’t.

  You and I can never be more than what we are.

  Mr Happy: And what are we?

  Em: Words.

  Your words. My words.

  … they’re just words.

  Vowels and consonants of

  lust, lies and nevers.

  I waited for a response, a response that never came.

  His words are a poisoned blade at my throat.

  I like them.

  I crave them.

  I provoke their slice into my skin.

  After getting out of the bath and climbing into bed, I’d kept my phone beside me while writing in my diary and then logging onto the SexyTexts interface. I’d even picked it up a couple of times to check if the sound had magically turned itself off. It hadn’t. The sound was on and working perfectly fine, cementing that H was ignoring me. Simple as that. I couldn’t blame him though. I was selfish where he was concerned, holding on to him but never tethering him to me. I wanted him there, needed him there, but never let him move closer or leave.

  He was just … there. Always.

  Picking up my pen, I scribbled another note in my diary, the pages full of doubt, sin, confusion and regret scribbled in ink.

  It’s not him I crave,

  It’s his desire for me.

  I can’t have him.

  I don’t want him.

  But I can’t let him go.

  My doctor’s concept of keeping a diary worked for the most part, because seeing my thoughts written before me often gave them new light. But not always. Sometimes they seemed darker on the page than how they had in my head. Like the one I’d just written. Reading it back now, you’d think I was a slut of mega proportions. But I wasn’t. I didn’t sleep around with a ton of men. I didn’t lead them on in real life. Okay, so yeah, I did lead them on while I was sexting, but that was my job. I was supposed to do that. My clients spent their purchased credits on my ability to do that and to do it well. But in reality, and despite my playful and flirty ways, I wasn’t a slut. And I certainly didn’t want to mislead anyone, especially Brad. It was one of the reasons why I’d pushed him away earlier in the evening, and it was also the reason I remained honest and blunt with H.

  I just wasn’t girlfriend material. I had too many blemishes under my blemish-free exterior. But I did crave H’s words, his textual company … his friendship. And I’d be lying if I said that his desire for me wasn’t a turn-on, because it was. Of course it was. Desire was a provocative poison. Powerful. Delicious. It was an elixir that when swallowed, drowned you in need. Desire was addictive, hypnotic, a force near impossible to break, and no matter whether you were the object of desire or controlled by the spell it cast, the results were invariably the same.

  Desire was dangerous.

  Desire was my biggest blemish.

  My phone beeped beside me, loud and sharp, the sound coming out of nowhere. I flinched and almost gave birth to a fucking jellyfish. Shit-fucking-fuck!

  Grabbing it, I fumbled with what-the-hell-jitters and nearly dropped the phone on my lap. I knew it wasn’t H replying to the ruthless response I’d sent him, because the message tone wasn’t the one I’d assigned to his profile. Still, I was keen to see who the hell was contacting me so late at night.

  Unknown: Hey, it’s me, Brad.

  Cori gave me your number.

  Hope you’re cool with that.

  Just wanted to say I’m sorry for tonight.

  I came on too strong.

  I’m a cockhead.

  Swallowing the guilt lodged in the back of my throat, I felt regretful. Ashamed. So you should, you stupid mole. I’d just left him standing there on the beach after he’d nearly impregnated my leg with his awesome mouth. I was a bitch—no doubt about it—albeit a confused bitch. I’d gone all United States of Tara on him, switching personalities and leaving him to think that he’d been at fault for my fleeing when he hadn’t. It was my fault, not his. Yet I’d worried for nothing because, according to H, anything more than a little fun between Brad and I was highly unlikely, and he was probably right.

  I needed to apologise.

  I needed to set the poor guy straight.

  Quickly typing a response, I paused and bit my thumbnail before pressing send.

  Em: Of course I’m cool with you having my digits.

  And no, I’m the cockhead, not you.

  I overreacted. It was stupid.

  I’m sorry.

  Brad: Don’t be sorry.

  I came on too strong.

  I shouldn’t have done that on the beach where people might see.

  I made you feel uncomfortable, and I’m a dick for doing that.

  Oh my God! Is he for real?

  Em: Let me make this clear.

  There was nothing uncomfortable about how you made me feel.

  And you didn’t come on too strong. I like strong.

  I just didn’t want you to think that I was a slut,

  that I’d fuck you and then fuck off back to Melbourne in a few days.

  I’m not like that.

  Brad: Fuck! I would never think you’re a slut, Em.

  I like you.

  And I’m pissed that I fucked things up.

  He likes me? Yeah, but it’s the wrong me. All men like the wrong me. Sighing, I let him off the hook he was never secured on.

  Em: You haven’t fuc
ked things up.

  I fucked things up.

  Brad: Are you crazy?

  You haven’t fucked things up.

  Em: You sure? I feel terrible.

  Brad: Is the pope an old dude with a white cape?

  I laughed out loud and shook my head.

  Em: Um … no. Technically, it’s a cassock, not a cape.

  Brad: You have a great laugh.

  You should laugh more often.

  Em: What?

  I blinked a few times and looked from one side of the room to the other, as if I were being watched by an invisible presence or hidden camera.

  Em: How’d you know I laughed?

  Brad: Because I’m sitting outside your hotel room.

  And your sexy pixie laugh is loud.

  What? He’s here? Quickly closing my laptop, I scrambled off the bed and wedged my diary into my suitcase before making my way to the door and opening it.

  I poked my head out and found Brad where he’d said he was, his back up against the wall with his long legs stretched out across the hallway.