My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend

I dare you to rub your fingers over the top of your panties. But do it exactly how you love to touch yourself when the panties aren’t in the way.

Slide a finger inside yourself. But imagine it’s me. Imagine it’s my hard cock filling you up.

If I were there, I’d taste you. I’d slide my tongue inside you and feel how wet you are. And I’d rub my cock on your clit, make you beg me to slide inside you.

Shiiiit. I’m in so much trouble here.

I take a deep breath to recenter myself and succumb to the fact that I’m going to have a rock-hard cock until I do something about it later tonight.

I can’t tell her the things I want to say, so I go with something a little more textbook than romance novel and hit send.

Me: I don’t have pre-planned sext messages that I send out to women, Maybe. It’s more of an in-the-moment kind of thing.

Maybe: I think I want to do it. Sext message, that is. It’s time.

I rub at my face roughly. Good God, she’s trying to kill me.

Me: It doesn’t exactly work like that. You don’t just start randomly sexting people.

Maybe: I KNOW THAT. I’m just saying I want to experience it.

Before I can respond, another text message pops onto the screen.

Maybe: Why don’t we just do some sexting now?

Me: WHAT?

Maybe: C’mon, Milo. It’s not a big ask. Just help me practice a bit.

She wants me to practice sexting with her? I open and close my eyes just to make sure what I’m seeing is real.

But it is. And she doesn’t hesitate to continue her crazy campaign to make it happen.

Maybe: Evan asked you to help me!

I laugh. Outright.

Me: He asked me to help you find a job in publishing. I’m absolutely positive he did not ask me to sext with you. I don’t even think Evan’s ever used the word sext in conversation.

Maybe: It’s not like I’m going to send you pictures of my boobs and demand dick pics. I just want to rehearse. Like a sound check.

Sound check. Christ. The fact that she’s never done something like this before and wants to experience it for the first time with me is almost too much to handle.

Why does she have to be so goddamn irresistible?

Maybe: It’s either you or some random dude on TapNext.

TapNext? Fuck. I abhor the thought of her sexting some asshole on a dating app.

Maybe: What are you wearing right now?

She’s relentless. I sigh. But I also smile.

She’s so damn disarming, I don’t even know what I’m thinking anymore. It’s like I’ve lost all control of myself.

Maybe: Please, Milo.

Me: You’re not giving up on this, are you?

Maybe: Nope.

Son of a bitch. This is a bad idea.

I know this is a bad idea.

But despite my better judgment, my fingers tap across the screen slowly while my heart speeds up in my chest.

Maybe

Okay, so I don’t think I started Phase 2 exactly like Lena explained.

In fact, I’m pretty sure I did the exact opposite of what she advised.

But when absolutely no natural segue came to mind, I found myself reciting a lesson from my childhood with Betty Willis over and over again in my head—honesty is always the best policy.

The fact that I used Betty’s advice on something as unorthodox as sexting Milo is completely disturbing, but there’s no going back now.

All I can do is wait.

Nervously.

When two minutes pass, I start to freak out and throw myself face first into the comforter on my bed. The down material compresses at my face, allowing my continued breathing with ease. When a third minute comes to a close, I start to wish the material were a little more unyielding.

Jesus. What have I done? I completely fucked Phase 2, and now he is probably never going to speak to me again! Abort! Abort the mission!

I’m seconds away from typing out a rambling apology when my phone vibrates in my hands.

Milo: Boxer briefs and a T-shirt.

Oh. My. God. He’s doing it.

We’re doing it.

Well, we’re not actually doing it, but we’re doing sexting, the virtual form of doing it, and holy hell, I cannot breathe.

Calm the hell down! Take a breath, you lunatic.

I force myself to breathe and read his text message with slightly less crazy eyes.

Boxer briefs and a T-shirt.

Milo in just boxer briefs and a T-shirt?

Yeah, that’s hot.

Shit. Okay. Sexting. Sexting.

What in the hell do I say next?

Are they big boxer briefs?

What the hell? That doesn’t even make sense, Maybe.

Delete.

Do you have a big ole ball bulge?

Seriously?

Delete.

After another four awful attempts, I come up with something I think seems appropriate and hit send.

Me: Can I see?

Milo: Only if you show me too.

I swallow hard and look down at my stupid pizza pajama pants and white camisole.

Oh. My. God. I’m an idiot. Who wears pizza pajamas to a sexting party?!