He squeezed her tightly, sad their time off was coming to a close. Though luckily he’d snapped a thousand mental photos, each a perfect postcard of their vacation.

The thought put him to sleep smiling.

CHAPTER TWELVE

With everyone’s work schedules back in full swing and no meet-ups possible for two weeks, creativity was required to keep the three-way embers stoked and glowing. So with Sam’s permission – and by proxy, Mike’s – Bern took to texting her. Quick, incendiary missives, typically between dinner and bedtime. Some that welcomed her reply, and some merely to keep her edgy for him, she bet.

Can’t stop thinking about you. Ask me over.

That had been the first one. Mike had been lying next to her in bed. She’d answered, He’s home. Wish I could. Same as the next evening —

Tonight?

No, not tonight. Soon, baby. It’s killing me, too.

And the night after that —

Is he home? I’m dying for you.

Mike had been home, of course, lying right next to her as usual. The issue at the moment was actually that Bern was going away – leaving for a big construction job in the middle of the state for a week – otherwise he’d surely be fucking her brains out that coming weekend while Mike watched. As soon as he returned, Sam’s period was due to arrive, so sadly nothing epic was happening until the weekend. They’d arranged the next time, though, Sam and Bern, in a text exchange full of real, giddy urgency, instead of pantomime conspiracy.

In all seriousness, he’d texted, when can we get together again? I’m not dying but I AM eager :-)

She’d replied with a smile on her face. Us, too. And they picked a date, one that no one was all that pleased with.

Man, that sounds like forever from now, she’d told him.

Christmas wouldn’t be as special if it happened every week, he’d written back.

You don’t actually believe that, do you?

Not for a minute. I could fuck you every night and it wouldn’t be enough.

She’d grinned. Filthy man.

Sam marked their upcoming rendezvous on the calendar on the fridge with the loaded code name Girls’ Night, and she bet Mike got hard every time he glanced at that square. These scandalous texts were mere treats to tide them all over.

Mike was in on the texts, of course – in fact, he probably enjoyed them the most of everyone. When he asked who was messaging Sam, she’d lie, then find some reason to leave the bed and give him a chance to grab her phone, to “catch” her.

Is he home? Bern had asked, that one night. I’m dying for you.

He is, she’d replied, pulse quickening. Are you hard?

You have no idea. Want to see?

Show me.

Five minutes later, he’d sent the first photo – so much more erotic than Sam ever would have guessed. Sexting had always struck her as tacky before, so often manifesting as harassment, or the jurisdiction of impulsive kids. But when Bern sent her a photo of his hand wrapped around his cock, other thumb tucked under the waistband of his shorts, holding them down… her first reaction had been a shocked suck of breath, chased by a wave of arousal. Her gaze had jumped between his ready cock and that gruff fist, and she couldn’t say which was hotter. Her next reaction had been to wonder how he’d taken the thing, with both hands occupied.

Don’t wonder how , just be glad he did .

A new text had pinged a moment later, drawing a sigh from Mike – feigned annoyance. Sam knew that sigh for what it was – impatience. And excitement.

“Sorry. It’s Michelle. She’s chatty.”

I should be inside you, she read.

She typed back, How?

In your pussy. Deep.

Yes, you should be. But what will you do instead?

Stroke myself. Tell me how.

She bit her lip and wrote, Slow and tight.

She’d left the covers to brush her teeth, and been all but jumped by Mike when she came back to bed. He’d given it to her rough and fast and wordless, a smile hiding just behind his lips.

And so it had gone, all through the time while Bern was away.

He was due back in Pittsburgh tonight, and had mentioned he wasn’t getting home until late, so Sam wasn’t holding her breath on getting another digital gift. They’d be seeing him on Saturday night. She could wait four more days, as much as she’d come to savor those little teasing tastes of him. To say nothing of the resulting trouncing from Mike.

Though considering whom she was dealing with, she ought to have known better.

Ping.

She grabbed her phone from the bedside table just as she was undressing, Mike’s curious – and warming – attention not lost on her.

Hey beautiful.

Hey yourself. Uncanny timing – I was just getting undressed. Did the Wang Signal go off?

Undressed? You driving over here naked? That’s awful bold.

She smiled.

Cute. It’s late and he’s here. Afraid you’ll have to take care of yourself.

Afraid so. Tell me how, he wrote, the words now a familiar refrain.

Any way you want… as long as you tape it for me.

No reply came, and though Sam got under the covers wearing a coy little half smile, her nerves hummed. That was a loaded challenge she’d just laid at his feet, and she was as jittery as she was excited to find out if he ran with it.

“Michelle again?” Mike asked.

“Yeah.” She kept her voice airy – distracted and distant.

“Everything okay?”

“Mm-hmm…”

“Okay.”

Sam grabbed her book and moved her eyes across the same page a hundred times, taking nothing in.

Half an hour later, a chime shot her pulse into overdrive.

Check your e-mail.

The video was in her in-box, the attachment labeled, What You Reduce Me To.

She swallowed, face hot. Her phone was on mute, and she hit PLAY with her heart thumping in her throat. On the little screen, Bern’s body loomed large, his skin lit brightly against a dark room. He must have used his computer, and she squinted into the shadows, curious what his home looked like. All she could really make out were dark covers and light pillowcases, and of course Bern, kneeling wide before the camera, on his bed. Her belly clenched and heated, and her cheeks burned to be watching this, lying just a couple of feet from her husband. She hit PAUSE and leaned over to find her earbuds from the side table drawer.

“What are you doing?” Mike asked.

“Just a thing I want to watch. I won’t make you listen while you’re trying to read.”

“I don’t care. What kind of thing?”

“A Daily Show segment.”

“Oh, I’ll watch with you.”

She ignored him, plugging in the cord, angling her screen away from him with a very real bolt of guilt, and hit PLAY.

She turned up the volume, and at first there was no sound, not aside from the faintest hush of Bern’s breathing. He was shirtless, wearing either workout pants or drawstring pajama bottoms. With both hands he touched his chest, abs, hips, thighs, before bringing them back up to trace the shape of his erection behind the fabric. Sam swallowed. If this had been some anonymous, hot guy on the Internet, she doubted she’d have registered more than a passing, reflexive thrill. But he’d taped this for her. And there was no doubt in her mind, this man was hard from thinking of her, excited to perform for her.

He eased his bottoms down, exposing himself. For nearly a minute he taunted them both, grazing his length with measuring fingertips before fisting it. She watched his face, and his gaze as it moved between his hand and the lens, his stare hot and edgy, aimed right at her. He had to be out of his mind with excitement, knowing he’d be seen doing this.

He stroked himself, slowly, then quicker, grip looking tight, biceps clenched. Breathing turned to panting, turned to moans; his voice roused her as much as his body. He murmured things, things she could only catch snatches of, hot little tastes like, “Yeah,” and “Watch me,” and “You missing this?” His free hand was restless, cupping his balls, rubbing his belly, circling his chest. As he got closer, it settled in the crease of his thigh and hip, seeming to press there, rubbing with distracted, thoughtless motions. Sam’s mouth was dry, breath short. Arousal was humming hot and hungry between her legs.