“Millie,” he says. “I want you to stay on the line and I want to keep talking, is that all right? I think we have a lot to talk about, you and I.”
The way he says “you and I” makes me shiver.
As my hands brush against the skin on my chest, I feel my nipples tighten some more. “I’m good with that. I’d like to keep talking to you, too.”
“Good. I like your voice—hope that doesn’t creep you out,” he says.
I bite my lip. “Thank you. No, you don’t creep me out. If you did, I would never have called. I don't know how to find the right guy, but I for sure know which guys are the wrong ones.”
He pauses slightly. “And how do you think you’ll know when you’ve met the right one?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly how I’ll know. But I think he would have to be … well … be more like you.”
Chapter Five
David
Checking my email, I see that Millie’s message with her photo has arrived. Dying of curiosity, I click on it.
Oh. Shit.
That’s a selfie all right. A topless selfie showing her from the neck all the way down to her navel.
For what must be the first time in my entire broadcast career, I fumble my words.
“Dr. Dave? You still there?”
Am I here? No, I’m floating somewhere above the clouds.
There she is. Tendrils of light brown hair haphazardly fall around bare shoulders, framing her exquisite rack. The lighting is dim but I can see everything. Her abundant breasts are as she described: large, yes, but nothing I can’t handle, with erect, dusky nipples begging me to warm them up.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
And I am in so much trouble if anyone sees this.
I have two choices right now: Tell her that’s not what I asked for and explain that I meant a photo of herself dressed. Or simply say thank you and give her my guess as to her cup size.
It seems irrelevant now. Even without a second glance I know she’s a Triple E cup.
Of course I email back my only choice: Thank you. Triple E, love. We’re back on the air in a few seconds, and we don’t have to talk about cup size anymore.
I delete her email. What I’m not going to do is allow anyone else to see this photo and use it for a bit. I’m not going to let my producer Reagan make it part of the show, nor anyone else.
“Beautiful,” I say over the phone. “Just beautiful.”
She pauses for a second and replies, “Thank you.”
“Send me a picture of just your face…”
“Dr. Dave, we’re on the air!” shouts Reagan from the producer’s booth.
“Oh crap, how much of that went live?”
She leans into the microphone and laughs, “Enough. But do keep flirting with the caller, I want to hear more.”
I refresh the email at my desk, eager for the photo of her face to appear while I keep talking. “You know, Millie, you come off as shy at first, but you’ve got a very brave heart. Listeners, don’t underestimate shy people. Sometimes they can shock you to your core…”
The photo of Millie’s face arrives and I click on it so fucking hard. There’s a cute, messy bun. Luminous skin. Her full lips, parted in half a smile, match the color of her nipples that are now forever