I arrange my hair over my eyes, lift my phone over my head, and take another picture—as close to full body as I can get.
Woosh.
Send.
My entire body flushes. It feels more intimate, including my face in the shot.
"Fuck." His breath catches in his throat. "You're fucking perfect."
"Thank you." My blush deepens. "Take off your shirt."
"You done convincing me already?"
"That wasn't enough?"
"Not yet," he says.
The dare makes my entire body buzz. I want to send him more. I want to send him everything—all of me, in nothing, my hand between my legs, my pleasure all over my face.
That isn't smart.
But, right now, I don't care.
I point my phone at my collarbone, and I snap a photo.
My face.
My neck.
My chest.
Me, completely and totally exposed for him.
Woosh.
"Fuck."
Then I push my bra aside and take another.
I roll my finger over my nipple and take another.
A groan falls off my lips.
"Are you starting without me?" he asks.
"If that's what it takes."
"You'll like it."
"That's not a clue." I reach around my back, unhook my bra, snap another picture.
Woosh.
Blush.
Buzz.
It's a perfect, delicious rhythm.