The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Josie

I shouldn’t do this. I really shouldn’t. And yet that night, when I’m home in Wesley’s place, wandering through the living room, my footsteps echoing as I enter the kitchen, I stop and snap a picture.

Of the kitchen counter. We agreed not to “do that” again. But a photo’s not breaking a rule. That’s what I tell myself as I hit send on a text.

Josie: Does this count for number five? Take pictures of fun times?

It’s late in New York, a little past midnight, so I don’t expect to hear from him. But as I leave the bathroom after applying my lotions and potions, a reply blinks up at me.

Wesley: Well, there were definitely fun times there.

A smile takes me hostage, along with my reason and good sense. As I walk to the bedroom in the dimly lit home, I dictate another text.

Josie: I went to The Resort with my friends for a girls’ night out. I thought about the last time I was there.

Wesley: Yeah? What about it?

They say text has no tone, but his sounds intrigued.

Josie: I thought about when you said “What are you into?” Nobody has ever asked me that before. No one.

Wesley: Their loss. My gain. Since you knew exactly what you wanted. I can still hear you saying it.

A delicious chill slides down my spine as I wander into my room, shedding my sweatshirt, a little intoxicated already by this exchange.

Josie: What did I say?

I haven’t forgotten what I said. I doubt he has either. I just want to hear him say it. Or write it.

Wesley: You said the hottest words ever.Content © NôvelDrama.Org 2024.

My breath halts. A ribbon of heat unfurls inside me. He’s lit a match. Then he drops it on some kindling, setting the blaze with his next message.

Wesley: And I quote: “Can you bend me over the bed and fuck me hard?”

Josie: And you understood the assignment.

I float to the bed in a sex trance, remembering that night, but boomeranging to the other morning, too, here in the house. That first night with him, he was my sexy stranger. The second time, he was my hot-as-hell friend.

Wesley: What would you say now? If I asked you what you’re into?

My lungs are hot. My bones are lava. I sit on the bed, my entire body aching for him. I close my eyes. Picturing. Then I sink down onto the pillows and respond.

Josie: Your hands on me. Your mouth exploring my skin. Your dirty words whispered in my ear.

Wesley: Where do you want my hands?

I drag a hand down my chest then back up, touching the valley of my breasts, my skin tingling as I trace the path I want him to touch. I sigh greedily, a precursor to the moan building in my chest, then write back. My neck. My throat. My back. When you push me down. When you tug me close. When you put me in position.

Except I don’t send that. A picture is worth a thousand words. Instead, I angle the phone’s camera with my left hand, then push down my tank top so the tops of my breasts are exposed. Holding the phone, I take a picture of my hand spread across my tits, inching toward the hollow of my throat.

After I check it, I hit send. Feeling bold, I stretch against the pillow, my neck long, my hand curling around it gently. Another pic. Before I can stop I take off my shirt, flip to my stomach. Resting the phone against the pillow as a stand, I set a timer and strike a pose of me in a bra and jeans, my hand pressing on my back.

I send it.

Thirty seconds later, my phone pings.

Wesley: You. Are. Killing. Me.

I grin, giddy on his lust, craving more of it. I write another text. Don’t die before you fuck me again.

But, smiling wickedly, I rethink it. Erasing that. Writing something new. Short, to the point.

Josie: Your turn.

I’ve never sexted before. I’ve never sent naughty pictures. I’ve never received them either. But when my phone buzzes, the throb between my thighs builds. A low, hot pressure spreads in my belly. I click it open.

“Oh my god,” I say, all breath and fire.

It’s a shot of him from the chest down, taken with a view of the naked ladder of his abs. They’re covered by his muscular forearm, his wrist, and his hand, shoving his boxer briefs down. I can’t see anything. There’s no peen in the pic. But it’s clear what he’s doing. The idea of him gripping his cock right now is too much to bear.

I dictate a reply.

Josie: Gonna need a sec with this.

Wesley: Yeah, me fucking too.

Then, I take that second and turn it into a minute or two as I shove my fingers down my panties and imagine Wes taking matters into his own hands across the country.

In a hotel room in New York City, there’s a tall, strapping, six-foot-three hockey stud with inked arms, ripped abs, and talented hands, fisting his cock.

To me.

I am a volcano. And soon, I erupt.

I try to catch my breath, but I’m still panting, still a little electric everywhere as I reply.

Josie: Was that number five? Take pictures of fun times?

Wesley sends a picture of his face with a cocky satisfied smile. It makes my chest ache. I wish it were this weekend. I wish he were here. And I know we shouldn’t do this. But I did it anyway. I guess I was in a fuck it kind of mood.

I hop out of bed, grab a few things, then take one more picture. A photo of the list, updated.

1. Have a one-night stand with a sexy stranger.

2. Overcome a fear (take a class you can’t prepare for, baby! Psst—improv class time!)

3. Make a friend who’s nothing like you. You learn the most from them.

4. Eat dessert for breakfast.

5. Take pictures of your fun times. (It’s okay to stop and snap a pic! That doesn’t mean you’re not living in the moment. It means you’re giving yourself a beautiful memory for later.)

We’re halfway done, and it feels like time is running out.