Page 29 of Sexting the Pakhan

Then:You made it worse.

Better.

A pause.

Then:…better.

I sit on the edge of the bed, chest still rising a little heavier than usual, and look at that final message.

No name. No face. Just a woman somewhere in the city who lets me speak to her like that and answers back like she was made to tempt me.

My phone lights one last time.

Goodnight, Mystery Number.

I stare at it for a second, then type:Goodnight.

Another pause.

Then I add:Text me tomorrow.

Her reply is immediate:That sounds like an order.

I smile.It is.

And after a moment, she sends back exactly what I hoped she would.

Okay.

4

ZOYA

I’m still pantingwhen the phone slips from my hand and lands beside me on the bed.

My fingers feel boneless. My thighs are trembling. My whole body is too warm, too sensitive, too aware of the damp slickness between my legs and the way my pulse still won’t settle. I stare up at the ceiling and try to breathe like a normal person, but every inhale catches halfway in my chest and turns into something shakier.

Jesus Christ. I actually came.

For a stranger. For a faceless man on the other side of a screen who told me what to do in that low, controlled way that somehow felt even filthier because I couldn’t hear it, could only imagine it.

I drag one hand over my face and let out a breath that’s closer to a helpless laugh than anything else.

This is insane. Completely insane.

My pussy gives a weak little throb at the memory of the last messages, and I squeeze my thighs together on instinct, only to suck in a breath at how sensitive I still am. My fingers are sticky. My skin is damp. I can still feel the ghost of that rough, possessive voice in my head, the one I built out of nothing but a few careful texts and my own ruined imagination.

Mystery Number.

Tall. Dark hair. Bad habits.

I close my eyes.

At first, like before, the picture in my head is vague. A broad body. A hard chest under my palms. A large hand gripping my thigh, spreading me wider. A faceless man sitting back against the mattress while I climb onto his lap, his mouth brushing my neck, his voice at my ear telling me to take it slow, to stay still, to be good.

I press the heel of my hand to my sternum and try to steady myself, but that just makes me more aware of my own body. My nipples are still tight under my T-shirt. My skin still feels too electric, too hungry. I can practically feel that imagined hand sliding up the inside of my thigh again, feel the rough command in those texts sinking into me all over again.

I swallow.