Chapter 18

Elle

My phone buzzes.

Three weeks is a long time.

Sawyer.

If the phone had been pressed between my thighs when it vibrated, the message couldn’t have taken a more direct path to my libido.

It’s the last day of school before summer, and the boys are participating in their elementary school’s “Moving Up” ceremony. We’re sitting in the elementary school cafeteria-gymnasium, which is one of those battered-but-charming older school setups with pads on the walls and a low-slung stage and beat-up folding chairs. The kids squirm in rows on the floor in front of the adults, and the whole room is steaming hot, despite a propped-open door in the back corner.

I’m overwhelmingly aware of Sawyer, three rows behind me. We drove separately and I hadn’t thought to save him a seat. Actually, I’d thought about it, but it felt awkward to actually do it, because he and I weren’t exactly friends, not yet. We existed in some weird in-between region. I’ve actually experienced something like that before, with other parents of kids Madden is friends with. You get to know kids’ parents when you do drop-off and pickup from playdates, but you aren’t quite officially friends with the parents on your own terms, where you’d invite them to socialize with you.

Plus, with Sawyer and me there’s this other complicating factor…

The one epitomized by the text on my screen, Three weeks is a long time.

Three weeks is a long time, I tap back. I don’t bother, yet, to try to shield my phone screen, but I’m aware of the moms on either side of me, casting side-eye at my unruly device.

Sawyer’s text is the first time either of us has mentioned his sex-repeat proposition since he laid it on the proverbial table Friday, after Trevor and Helen’s awful visit. Sawyer finished the fence the next day, and since then, he’s been—from my perspective—hiding out in his house and depriving me of my view. He hasn’t even knocked on my door looking for Jonah. The boys have carried messages back and forth from house to house (“My dad says it’s fine if I sleep over if it’s fine with you.”), but there have been no hot-dad visitations.

Which is as it should be. We made a deal. And honestly, I’m somewhat worried that if Sawyer starts making appearances on my doorstep, my resolve might not last long.

My phone vibrates, sending ripples up my legs. Or maybe that’s just anticipation. I have some ideas, the text says.

Oh. I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of a strong desire to press my bare thighs together under my sundress.

I should ignore him. This isn’t the time or the place. And the terms of our agreement stipulated only that one night. No kissing beforehand.

And even if I’m thinking about violating that provision, I should tell him we can resume this conversation later, when we’re both in the privacy of our homes.

I text back, Do tell.

You look pretty in that dress.

Thank you.

You would look even prettier with that dress up around your waist.

I’m suddenly warm all over, with hot spots in certain key locations.

Are you going to wear a dress to the wedding?

Hattie and I are going shopping Saturday. Madden will be with my parents.

Yes.

I want to mess with you under the tablecloth.

Now I do press my thighs together—as subtly as possible. I think about how much better it would be if his hand were there, between my legs. Giving me something to shift and rub against. Finding the edge of my panties, creeping under the lace hem, sliding between my slick lips, parting me to rest a teasing fingertip against my swollen clit.

“There they go,” whispers the woman next to me, and I wrench my attention back to where the third graders are edging forward on the floor to take the spot that had been occupied by the fourth graders. “They’re so cute.”

They are adorable, and I grab my phone and shove it unceremoniously into my purse, giving the kid spectacle my full attention. But I can’t stop thinking about Sawyer’s hand finding me under the table at the wedding reception.

I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Sawyer is thinking about it.

The kids go back to their classrooms and the parents file out. I stop to chat with several of Madden’s classmates’ parents, so it takes me a while to make my way out to the car. All the while, I’m hyperaware of my phone in my purse. I force myself to drive home, pull into the garage, and shut the door. Then I snatch the phone out of my purse like a starving woman lunging at an all-you-can-eat brunch.

There’s a string of texts from Sawyer.

I’ll behave myself in church.

Unless you don’t want me to. I do have a lot of fantasies involving remote-control vibrators and church pews.

But once we’re out of the church, all bets are off.

Oh, my. On both counts.

I’m going to make you come for the first time before we leave the reception.

I gasp.

Giving in to an impulse that’s now almost an hour old, I slide my hand between my legs and cup myself where I’m damp and swollen. Lifting my hips to rub against my palm is irresistible, and the friction when I do makes me think I could make myself come in under a minute.

Instead, I text Sawyer back.

Not fair.

Right away, he texts back, Oh, good, thought you’d gone dark on me.

No, I just couldn’t sext with the PTO looking over both my shoulders. Plus, I was afraid of leaving a wet spot.

Were you?

The text is accompanied by an eggplant. I’ve never been much for either emojis or vegetables in a sexual context, but I have to admit, my desire to laugh is tempered by a swirl of arousal. I think it’s because the visual reminds me of the way Sawyer fit—or barely fit—inside me.

I squeeze my hand tight between my thighs and wriggle.

Where are you now?

In my car. Still haven’t made it into the house. Where are you?

In my workshop. I’m supposed to be finishing a table, but instead I’m imagining you on it.

Are you? I add a peach emoji, just for good measure.

What are you doing still in the car?

On a whim, I snap a selfie of my hand buried between my thighs.

Oh, Jesus. You trying to kill me?

The return photo is of flat abs, a jeans waistband, and a hand plunged deep behind the fly. My mouth goes dry.

What would it take to get you off? he texts.

Not much.

What if I told you what I’d do to you if I were there?

That would do it.

Put the phone down where you can see the screen.

I obey.

First thing is I’d get you naked because I didn’t get to last time. And I think about it all the time, what you’d look like.

He thinks about me, naked, all the time? Does he mean that, or is that just a thing you say when you’re trying to sext someone to orgasm?

I don’t have time to think too long about it, because he keeps the goodness coming.

And then I’d taste you. Everywhere. I’d spend a long time on your mouth, but I want to bite your earlobes and lick your throat and kiss your collarbone, too. And I want to suck on your nipples until it’s almost too much.

The combination of the fantasy he’s evoking and the pressure of my hand is doing its work, fast. I’m panting and arching and wriggling, using my other hand to pinch and tweak my nipples.

But what I really want most is to lick between your legs.

A surge of heat and pure, sheer lust almost finishes me off.

“Hey Siri,” I say. “Tell Sawyer Paulson I’m so close.”

“Sending a text message to Sawyer Paulson that says ‘I’m so close.’ ”

I want to get you so wet you can’t tell what’s you and what’s me. Circle your clit, teasing you to the edge, and then pull back until you beg me to let you come.

With an involuntary cry, I come in fierce waves, bearing down on the armrest, digging my fingernails into the faux leather.

“Hey Siri. Tell Sawyer Paulson I just came.”

“Sending a text message to Sawyer Paulson that says ‘I just came.’ ”

A moment later:

Fuck, Elle. I’m right behind you.

And then:

Jesus. That was voodoo fucking good.

I laugh. And I return to my senses, amused and a little abashed by how thoroughly he made me lose my head. I’m sitting in my car with my dress hitched up and my hand between my legs, sexting my next-door neighbor. A neighbor who has already made me behave insanely on another occasion and will quite likely make me do all kinds of things I won’t respect myself for the next day at Trevor’s wedding.

Wait. Speaking of Trevor’s wedding…

I think that was technically cheating, I tell him.

Nah. It was foreplay.

Does that mean there could be other kinds of “foreplay” between now and our “one-time” repeat?

My still throbbing body gives that idea an enthusiastic thumbs-up.