A woman in a white wedding dress marched up to another, similarly dressed, bride. The first ripped the veil from the second's carefully coiffed hair. Their two respective grooms were in each other's faces, yelling and pushing. The show host tried to intervene, but it was a half-hearted attempt. He knew what made for good ratings.

I was in my pajamas, on the sofa, with a bowl of popcorn in my lap. Trash TV never failed to distract me from my problems. Watching other people deal with life's foibles reminded I could have it much worse. Or, in the case of those millionaires shows, much better. Either way, it made me reevaluate my life and priorities.

I didn't know why this week's visit to my dad's bothered me so much. He hadn't acted any differently than during all my other visits over the years. He'd always been a workaholic, but after Mom died in an accident, he'd gone overboard, trying to distract himself from the pain of her loss. I took after my father in that respect.

Some small part of me had wondered if he wouldn't get better once Hope and I moved out on our own. Without us there, without having to stare into our faces and be reminded every day of the woman he'd lost, I had thought maybe he would improve. Maybe he'd be able to move on.

If anything, it had gotten worse. When the stress finally got to him, the doctor put him on indefinite medical leave. Something about his heart. With no work to distract himself with, he'd slowly withered away, becoming a shell of the man he once was. With his condition, I always worried something would happen. If he didn't take care of himself, if he didn't look out for his health…

I'd had nightmares about walking into my childhood home and seeing my father lying on the floor, his body cold and stiff.

I shoved a fistful of popcorn in my mouth and turned up the volume, wanting to hear the bleeped out curse words and angry shouts of this week's bridezilla.

The show ended and I turned off the television and got ready for bed. There was no one to say goodnight to. I turned off the lights in the living room, closed the door to my bedroom behind me by habit, and slipped under the covers.

I heard my phone ping with a notification from the nightstand. I thought about ignoring it, but it could have been work. I grabbed it and checked the glowing screen.

Hey sweetness, it read. What are you up to tonight?

My heart both jumped and sank at the same time, if that was even possible. My stomach filled with dread as I realized Damon had another way to continue torturing me. My stomach filled with dozens of nervous butterflies, wondering why he was texting — and wondering what he was going to say next.

My phone pinged again. I gripped it tight.

Got a hot date? he asked. Is that why you're ignoring me?

I'm not ignoring you, I wrote back. You only messaged me thirty seconds ago.

I'm an impatient man.

How did you even get my number? You didn't have my phone long enough to memorize it.

It's on your business card.

Dammit.

So is that a no on the hot date? he wrote back.

I snorted.

What about you? I asked. Shouldn't you be banging some groupie instead of spending your time annoying me?

You seem obsessed with my sex life.

I am not.

That's the second time you've mentioned groupies. I didn't think you were so judgmental. Your sister was one, wasn't she?

She was not!!! Hope was a fan, that's it.

Fangirl, groupie, is there a difference?

You're an ass, I typed back and tossed my phone on the nightstand.

It pinged. I ignored it and sunk down further into the covers.

It pinged again. And again, in a flurry of texts. With a grunt, I reached out from the blankets and fumbled around for it.

I'm sorry, Damon had typed. I didn't mean to insult you, or Hope. You're the one who keeps talking about groupies as if they're a bad thing. I love groupies. And not just to "bang". Groupies are our most hardcore fans. They follow us everywhere, go to every concert. They're the reason we're able to do what we do.

I squirmed on my bed, vaguely ashamed.

You're right, I typed reluctantly. I've been a bit of a judgmental bitch, haven't I?

A little, he typed back.

You could at least disagree!! I typed furiously.

If the Diana Six shoe fits…

How did Damon even know what kind of shoes I wore?

I hate you, I responded.

No you don't.

I could see his smug smile in those words.

Fine, then I vehemently detest you, I wrote.

Oooh, she brings out the fancy words now. Gimme more. I'm imagining you with that sexy librarian look. I think it would suit you.

I couldn't help but laugh out loud a little.

So brains turn you on? I typed. I thought a guy like you would be all about the boobs.

I can appreciate a good set of tits as much as the next guy, he wrote back. I just like the idea of a straight-laced good girl letting me enjoy those tits in a million filthy ways.

A full body flush went through me as I stared at Damon's message on my phone screen. Images depicting exactly what those filthy ways might be flashed in my head. A tingle formed between my legs. I squeezed them together, forcing myself to ignore it.

My phone pinged again.

You're having naughty thoughts about me, aren't you? he typed.

My breathing went shallow.

I'm having them, too, he continued.

My hands trembled.

Like right now, I'm imagining sucking on those perfect tits of yours.

My nipples peaked, as if he had done just that. As if his words had a direct line to my body. He held power over me in a way I'd never experienced before.

Now it's your turn to sext me back, he wrote.

I started to type the words, I'm not going to sext with you. I stopped halfway through and deleted the characters one by one.

Why are you doing this? I typed instead.

'Cause you're sexy and smart and so prim and proper, it makes me want to hear you say dirty things.

My stomach tumbled over on itself.

If you don't want to sext me, that's cool, Damon messaged. I mean, almost EVERYONE has sexted before, but if you don't think you can, then whatever. You probably wouldn't be any good at it anyway.

My jaw clenched. I knew exactly what he was doing. Taunting me, challenging me. He knew how much I hated giving in.

Fine. He wanted dirty, I'd give him dirty.

I closed my eyes and brought to mind every naughty thing I'd ever watched, read or experienced. What would turn Damon on? What would shock him?

I opened my eyes and began to text, the pulsing between my thighs growing with every word.

First, I'm going to strip off your jeans and pull out your cock. It's hot and heavy in my hands. I'm going to suck the head into my mouth, licking around and around, tasting you. Then I'm going to take you nice and deep, until you're buried in my throat, until I'm stuffed full of your cock, until I can't breath around you. Then I'm going to drive you crazy with my lips and tongue. I'll lick and suck and swallow around your hard cock. It'll be so good, you'll spill down my throat within minutes. Then I'm going to lick every inch of you, until I've swallowed every drop.

Cheeks burning, insides aching, I sent the text.

I waited for Damon to respond. I smoothed down my hair with shaking hands. Had I done it wrong? Was he laughing at me? Was he going to tease me? Or had it been too much? It was too much, wasn't it? He was disgusted with me.

After several minutes he replied. I fumbled with the phone in my haste.

That was fucking hot, was all he said.

An odd sense of relief filled my chest. At least he wasn't teasing.

A few seconds later he sent, That was so hot, I had to go beat one out.

Don't be gross, I replied, even as a sense of pride came over me.

Now send me a naked selfie, he typed.

GOOD NIGHT DAMON, I texted back in all caps. I turned my phone off completely and set it aside.

I'd done it. I'd sent a text sexy enough he had to go… do that.

I felt the beginning of wetness between my thighs, the ache between my legs growing stronger.

It had also been sexy enough to make me want to go do that.

I closed my eyes and fought against the urge. I wasn't going to go touching myself to thoughts of Damon. I wasn't. I refused.

It was a long, cold, frustrating night.