Page 2 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
If I wear the black dress, I’ll have a nice, fun night. If I wear the red one... well, anything could happen.
I snatch up the red slip and decide to ditch a bra entirely. I hold up the sticky adhesive cups, but then I look at the dress. Nah. I toss them back into the drawer. The back is too low for straps, and the front is reckless, so fuck it. I want it that way.
I slide the silk on, the fabric melting against my bare skin, and turn to the full-length mirror.
Damn.
It fits like a glove. Better than a glove. It fits like a secret. My cleavage is… prominent. The lace detailing around the bust frames everything like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.
“Oh, yeah,” I grin, posing with a hand on my hip and tossing my hair over one shoulder. “This is definitely a mistake. The good kind.”
But is it too much?
I frown, twisting to see the back. Is it giving Sex Goddess or Desperate? I’ve been out of the dating game for six months to build my portfolio, so I need a second opinion. I need Harper to tell me I look like a queen so I can walk out that door with zero regrets.
I grab my phone, angling it high to get the best lighting. Snap.
I open my gallery, scroll back to the photo of the black bodycon I took ten minutes ago, and look at the new one. The red slip.
The lighting in the red one is golden, catching the sheen of the silk perfectly. My lips are painted a dark berry, my eyes are bright with adrenaline, and the dress… Well, the dress definitely answers the question.
I keep the Photos app open, my thumb hovering over the screen. Harper is waiting and I needed to be out that door like five minutes ago. I just want to send this and go.
I select both pictures: the red slip and the black bodycon. Side by side. Safe vs. Dangerous.
I hit the Share icon. The row of suggested contacts pops up—a line of little circles at the top of the screen.
Harper’s face is the first one.
I tap it. The chat draft opens with the photos attached.
I type the caption quickly:
Me: Help. Red or Black? Which one guarantees I get laid tonight?
I hit send.
The little whoosh sound of the message flying away echoes in the silence of my bedroom. I toss the phone onto the duvet, turn on my heel, and strut toward the bathroom to find my waterproof mascara. I’m humming along to the music, swaying to the beat, thinking about tequila shots and bad decisions.
I’m reaching for the doorframe when the music suddenly drops in volume.
Ping.
I pause, a smile tugging at my lips. Harper is fast today. She must be glued to her phone, probably procrastinating on packing. She’s going to tell me to wear the red one, obviously.
Ping. Ping.
The music stays low, failing to recover as the notifications pile up. My smile falters. Three pings? Rapid fire. Is she freaking out? Does she hate it?
My pulse spikes. The pounding bass suddenly sounds distant, drowned out by the heavy thudding of my own heart. I turn slowly, looking at the phone lying on the duvet.
I walk back to the bed, my stomach doing a strange stutter-step. I reach out and pick it up. I don’t even have to unlock it. The notifications are right there on the lock screen.
Harper (Surprise) (3 New Messages)
I choke on a breath.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”
