Page 35 of Sexting His Son's Ex
Whoever this person is sending me flowers, must have heard all of the horrid and twisted things. People are not exactly quiet about what I do or what they have heard about me. It’s no wonder that conversations stop when I walk into a building orpeople stare, whispering to one another if this story is true or that story.
They are all true.
Allegedly,if the police ask.
I reach down between my legs and squeeze my semi-hard cock, hoping the slight pain is enough to ease the desire. I haven’t felt like this in years. I can’t remember the last time I had sex. It didn’t become a priority after my wife died. I threw myself into running this syndicate. It’s all that mattered. Now, I have an empire so many are wanting to collapse.
As long as I’m breathing, the empire will continue to grow, and if Bianchi isn’t careful, his plan is going to backfire, and I’ll control the southern territory. I’m a reasonable, fair man, unlike my enemy. There are plenty of people who would support the leadership change. People make more money when I’m the one leading them.
And who doesn’t like to make money?
I tap the cards on the desk, then sit on the edge, opening the drawer. I add them to the stack from the other bouquets. I plan to cherish them forever. If this entire thing ends up being a ploy, I’ll still keep them to remind myself I’m able to feel something other than being completely numb to life.
Grabbing my phone, I take a picture of the tulips, set them as my background image, then send Ms. Smith a picture.
I’m dying to know what she looks like. I want to see the face that belongs to the body I’m completely obsessed with. It’s fucking perfect. She’s a Greek goddess, all curves, and thick thighs. Shewas made to be worshiped, and I’ll happily get on my knees to kiss the ground she walks on.
Me: “I received your flowers. As always, they are beautiful. Let’s make the tulip card happen, Ms. Smith. Let’s meet and I’ll focus entirely on you.”
My phone clatters to the desk as I watch her bubbles appear. I’m trying to be as nice and as patient as I can when it comes to having her tell me who she is. I want her to be comfortable, yet as the days go on, I feel strung along. I dislike that. No one has the upper hand when I’m involved in the situation. I am always in control.
Being out of control is nerve racking.
Her: “I hope to one day, but not soon.”
I toss my phone on the office chair, frustrated beyond belief. “One day,” I scoff. “And not soon?” Absolutely not.
I bend down to pick up my phone, irritated. I don’t understand why she doesn’t want to meet yet.
Me: “I won’t wait for one day soon. I’ll find out on my own if this goes on for much longer.”
Her: “I can’t ask you not to look into me. I know this bothers you. I’m asking you for a little more time.”
I knock the Italian imported wood with my knuckles, growling in protest.
Me: “What’s a little more time?”
Her: “A… few more months?”
“Months!” I shout, rereading her message over and over. There’s no way she means months. Now, the hair on the back of my neck’s standing up. Why would she need months to meet me? My idea that this is a set up makes more sense.Months. Bianchi must be planning something. The woman he’s using to send videos to me, I wonder how much he is paying her to do this.
Is it against her will? Is she doing this for laughs? Or is she rolling in the money he is giving her?
My fingers ache to type that I’m done, that I never want to speak to her again. The flash of anger possesses me, and I fight against it. No matter what I think or how I feel in this moment, I could be wrong. I have to be open to being wrong. There’s a woman on the end of this phone and no matter the circumstances, I’m to treat her with respect.
My fingers hover over the touchscreen, debating on releasing my wrath. I can’t. I pride myself on thinking before I speak. I can’t let me anger get the best of me.
Me: “Months is out of the question. It’s already been too long for me. I’ve wanted to know who you are since the first bouquet. I’m not a man who trusts easily. I’m starting to wonder if this is a game. I don’t play games, Ms. Smith. I win them. I start them. I finish them. If you truly knew me, you’d know that. I’m invested in this, whatever this is, and I want to know you.”
I run my fingers through my hair, rereading my message to see if I sounded too harsh. I am who I am. Harshness is part of my nature, but with my mystery woman, I only want to be gentle and easy. I want to give her a part of me that no one else has had in a very long time.
And how ridiculous is that? How sad does that make me? Wanting to completely fall in love with someone whose name I don’t even know.
Her: “This isn’t a game. I promise you that. I’m not ready for you to see who I am, but all of the conversations we have shared have been real. They are me. I’ve shown you more of who I am in such little time. Talking to you has made every day easier to get through. You’ll understand why I’m so hesitant when we do meet. If you can’t do months, then maybe ONE month?”
I don’t like negotiations. I’m the one who makes the rules. Certain… customs have to bend in order to get to the goal we wish to achieve.
Me: “One more week. That’s my final offer. I will know who you are by the end of next week. Whether you like it or not, Ms. Smith.”
