Page 65 of Burn the Script

Graham

Happy Valentine’s Day, darling. Sweet dreams.

GRAHAM SENT A VIDEO

I’m high on hormones, at risk of vibrating off the bed. When I click on the video, a helpless noise sticks in my throat—a yelp of surprise mixed with a whimper of longing.

His hand glides up and down his gorgeous cock, covering the head on every pass. My empty fist tightens, nails digging into my palm. I can enjoy the show, but I’m not giving in.

“I dream of your lips.”

“Shit!” The phone fumbles my hand, but I keep hold of it.

“I dream of sleeping next to you. I dream of your sweet sounds when we make love.” He moans. “And your demands when we fuck.”

Graham’s honeyed baritone slithers through my bedsheets, leaving a wet spot on my expensive satin pants. Our breaths fall in sync, ragged and quickening.

“I dream of your smile.”

I can’t smile at the moment. I’m throbbing from taint to tip.

“And the way your voice…mmm…gets soft when you”—his breath catches—“when you say you love me.”

His hand speeds up, shuttling along his glistening shaft as my mouth hangs open for the big finale. I hear a quiet groan. The groan. And god help us both, he’s about to come on recorded video.

I shove my pajama bottoms down, spit in my palm, and grip my cock. Stroking, twisting, tugging in a frenzied game of catch-up. When he erupts, my name lives in the pleasured sigh rolling off his tongue. I follow with a shout, spurting like a geyser all over my pristine bedsheets.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

My head thumps against the wood headboard. There’s a mess to clean, and it’s all his fault. The phone screen goes black—dead battery—and my charger is in the kitchen. When I toss my useless phone on the nightstand, the lamp jostles. The bulb blinks out.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Cursing up a storm, I roll out of bed in total darkness and feel for the light switch in the attached bathroom. It’s my luck to have a terrible and wonderful Valentine’s Day at the same time.

Why would the universe be inclined to offer me the best things in life without an equal helping of the worst? Orgasms but no chocolate. Sewing skills but no admirers. A famous boyfriend but a fear of the spotlight. I can’t catch a fucking break.

Once I’ve changed my pajamas and sheets, and plugged in a nightlight, I snuggle into my comfortable bed again. My eyes close, but sleep eludes me. The video plays on a Technicolor loop in my head. Every frame, every movement, every shuddering breath he takes. I’ll be reliving it all night.

Sweet dreams, indeed.

Wednesday, February 15th

I tap my pen on the notepad in my lap. “How many people can I to bring to these sessions?”

Victor, my prospective therapist, lets out a subtle sigh through his nose. I get it. This consultation has been exhausting for me as well. Preston wasn’t lying about the amount of talking involved in therapy.

“We’ll go over the benefits of couples or group counseling after we dive deeper into your relationships,” Victor says.

Holding his level stare, I click the pen before jotting the vague answer on my notepad, beneath the other thirty-eight vague answers. Most of them are some variation of the phrase “deeper discussion.”

I look at what I’ve written down and nod, satisfied. “I’ve reached the end of my list, and we have ten minutes left. Do you have any questions for me?”

“Two.” He sets his blank notepad aside and leans forward, elbows on his knees and hands hanging loose. A silver watch gleams against his umber wrist, and he glances at it before pinning me with an unnerving gaze. “How do you feel when you’re not in control?”

“Out of control.”

His fingers twitch. “Do you always use sarcasm to avoid talking about your feelings?”