I’ve never taken a picture like this before,I confess before sending it, biting my lip as I wonder if he’ll find it sexy. I’ve always thought my breasts were a bit mediocre—not small enough for men who like petite, small-breasted women, but not big either. They’re full and perky, but I’ve always wondered if they were in a sort of odd middle-ground where no one would be particularly thrilled to see them.
Christ, Saoirse, you have the most gorgeous tits. Let the dress fall down?
Well, that answers that,I think to myself with a small leap of my heart, as my fingers hover over the screen and I consider where exactly this is going.
I’m not going to send him a full nude, if he asks for that, I decide. It’s risky even sending these—it’s only because I trust Niall so completely that I’m even doing it. If he wanted to, he could absolutely use these photos to help Liam and hurt Connor—but I hadn’t realized until before just how much I don’t believe that Niall is using me.
Continuing is a bad idea anyway—but I don’t want to stop. I’m too tipsy and worked up, my thighs clenched tightly together where my soft lace panties are clinging wetly, my heart racing in my chest, and more than anything, I don’t want this to be over. This is better than any stripper show or lap dance.
Show me a little more,I demand instead, and a photo comes through almost instantly, as if he’d already taken it knowing I would ask.
His jeans are pushed further down his hips, the black boxers just covering the head of his cock, the rest of the impressively thick shaft bare to me except where his fingers are covering just above the head, as if to keep it from springing free and baring all of it. I can see everything else, too—the deep cuts of muscle by his hips, the dark hair leading down to the dark trimmed thatch around the base of his cock, the ridged swells of his abs leading up to his chest. Another comes right after it, almost the same, but he’s shirtless now, and the photo shows all the way up to his full lips and sharp jaw, his chest entirely bare for me to see.
Well, I’m topless now, lass. ;)
The feeling that races through me is terrifying and arousing all at once. I know I’m crossing a line, but the alternative is stopping, and I’m enjoying myself too much. So before I can change my mind, I let the dress drop, and snap a photo.
I look hot in it. I can’t deny that, even though I’m shaking at the idea of sending it. My back is arched, my breasts pushed out, the hot pink fabric of my dress pooled around my waist and my red hair tumbling everywhere.I wish Connor wanted to see me like this.
The thought is so clear, so startling, that it makes my chest ache in the brief second before I send it. I feel almost guilty, because I know I’m using Niall. My desire for him is as genuine as his is for me, but he wantsme, and only me. If I thought there was a chance that I could have Connor completely, in every way, I’d give up Niall in a second if it meant I could be having this exchange with Connor instead.
I sink back a little as that truth hits me, square in the gut, taking a little of the pleasure out of what I’m doing. It’s a sobering thought, almost enough to make me stop the whole thing.
The only reason I don’t is a rebellious one, because if Connor is going to take away my chance of having a passionate marriage, I’ll be damned if he’s going to ruin this too.
As I wait for Niall to text back, I shrug my dress back on, tiptoeing out of the bathroom to grab my glass and the rest of one of the bottles of champagne. I know I’m risking being caught still up with my phone—Maggie in particular would know instantly something was going on—but I want a drink.
Niall’s text comes through seconds later, and I quickly sequester myself back on the heated bathroom tile, locking the door and pouring a glass as I hit the message bubble.
Fuck, Saoirse.
And then, a second later.
I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but if you couldn’t tell before, I’m rock-hard from thinking about you. And I can’t keep my hands off of myself, after seeing that.
Before I can text back, a third message comes through.
Goddamn it, lass, I want my hands on you instead of my own cock.
Oh god. I feel a warm flush of heat, arousal pooling between my thighs as I bite my lip to keep from moaning, squirming a little on the tiles as I read through his messages again. My heart is beating so hard it hurts, and I’ve never wished so much in my life that I could teleport myself back to the garden wall where he kissed me, or the club where Connor made me come, or the elevator, or any other place where either of them have touched me—
My phone chimes again.
Lass? Saoirse? I’m sorry if I was out of line—
No,I type back quickly.I just—it caught me off guard. You touching yourself, thinking of me. Looking at me.
The response is quick and to the point.
Lass, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve stroked my cock over the years thinking about you, I’d be a rich man.
My fingers hover over my screen. I have a sudden urge to tell him about the other night, and I grab my champagne glass, downing it before I start to type.
I touched myself after our little encounter the other night. In my room, leaning against the door. I came so hard I almost fell down. It felt so good.
The rush of admitting it is almost as good as the pleasure of the act itself, the thrill of imagining Niall reading those words, groaning, his fist tightening around his cock as he imagines me stroking my own clit.
I don’t know whether to be aroused at the idea that I turned you on so much, lass, or regretful that it’s not my fingers and tongue that gave you that orgasm.