Chapter 6: Secret Texts & Craving Begins

Morning light sliced across my bed and landed on the crumpled jersey still tangled around my bare legs. The fabric was damp in places from last night’s desperate session, carrying that sharp, earthy scent that had pulled me under again and again. I woke with it pressed to my cheek, sunlight highlighting every soft curve and silvery line on my belly. Instead of the usual rush of disgust, a confusing flicker of heat bloomed low in my gut. I traced one faint mark with a fingertip, breath catching, before reality crashed back in.

I bolted for the shower, water scalding my skin. This time I didn’t scrub furiously—I lingered, soaping the places his hands had gripped, the curve of my hip where his palm had cracked down, the inside of my thigh where his release had first leaked. My laptop sat open on the bathroom counter, towel wrapped loose around me while I typed frantic mockups one-handed. The other hand kept drifting between my legs, replaying the washing-machine orgasm until I came again under the spray, knees buckling against the tile. The client deadline had become an emergency; I’d stayed up until four a.m. pushing the rebrand across the finish line just to keep the project alive. Relief felt hollow, tainted by the knowledge that every keystroke had been interrupted by memories of his thick length stretching me open.

The day dragged in slow, cracking pieces. I tried avoidance at first—deleting Derek’s morning text without reading it—then reopened it anyway, pulse roaring at the words: Miss the way you squeezed me last night, Mommy. Heat flooded my face. I muted my work notifications and tried to focus, headphones blasting white noise while I stared at color palettes on screen. But every ping made me jump, half terrified, half aching for it to be him. The texts escalated through the week like a slow fuse burning closer.

First came the simple message during a client Zoom: Thinking about your ass bent over that machine. I muted my mic, slid my chair back, and slipped two fingers under my skirt right there at the desk, circling fast and silent while the client droned on about brand guidelines. The orgasm hit quick and quiet, thighs clamping around my hand as I bit the inside of my cheek bloody. The second the call ended I slammed the laptop shut, tears stinging my eyes. “I’m turning into someone I don’t recognize,” I whispered to the empty room.