Send a selfie

She stared at the counter, the phone dark under her hand.

Then she unlocked it again.

Scrolled.

The last photo—the one with her fingers parting herself, full and open—she skipped. Too much. Too far.

But one of the first few? The one where her breasts glistened with droplets, her mouth parted slightly, eyes still dazed from the shower?

That one.

That one said everything.

Not begging. Not teasing. Just… offering.

Emily tapped the share button, thumb hovering over the “To:” field.

Then frowned.

She didn’t have Will’s number.

Her lips twisted into something between irritation and amusement. He’d been to this house how many times now? Sat at that dining room table? Stared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking?

She wrapped her towel loosely around her chest and padded out into the hallway.

Jason was still passed out on the bed, one arm flung over his face, snoring like a man who’d gotten away with something.

He hadn’t.

Emily found his phone on the nightstand. No password. Just a lazy swipe-up.

She opened Contacts and typed “Will.”

One match.

She stared at the screen.

Minion #4

No other “minions.” No #1, 2, or 3. Just that.

She tapped it.

The contact photo was a still frame from a video—Will, clearly mid-stumble, tripping over someone’s gym bag while carrying a teetering stack of printer boxes. His mouth was open in mid-yelp, face twisted. It looked like it had been paused at the most embarrassing moment possible.

She shook her head slowly.

Jason had never respected Will.

And maybe that’s why Will had looked at her the way he did. Why he’d hesitated. Why he’d said no. Maybe he was just a better man?

She copied the number, backed out, and returned to her own phone.

Created a new contact. Just Will.

No mocking tag.

No photo—yet.

She pulled up the image again. The one she’d chosen. Wet skin, relaxed expression, her breasts framed softly by her arm and the towel slung low on her hips.

Attached.

Then, with a flicker of impulse, she attached a second—the more sensual one. From the mirror. Her hand at her collarbone, thighs parted slightly, her body angled toward the camera like she’d just turned to answer someone’s gaze.

Nothing graphic.

But it would linger.

No caption.

She hit send.