Chapter 23 Thirst-trapping Gone Wrong
SCARLETT
Lawrence has been in London for four days, and Kieran and I have been talking more.
A lot more. Late-night messages, voice notes, memes that make me laugh out loud in bed.
It's getting serious enough that I'm considering saying yes to being his girlfriend.
This evening, I'm in front of my full-length mirror, adjusting the strap of the new lingerie set I bought yesterday.
It's a black lace bra with thin straps that cross in the back, and a matching thong with thin ties at the hips.
The whole thing is provocative in the best way. I bought it thinking of Kieran's upcoming date tomorrow evening.
Now I'm trying to decide if I'm brave enough to send him a preview.
I strike about seven poses in one minute, arching my back, tilting my hip, pouting at the camera. But nothing looks right.
My shoulders are tense, my smile forced.
Sighing in defeat, I drop my arms, wondering what's wrong with me.
In college, I used to take thirst traps like it was nothing. Now I can't even get one decent angle.
Shaking my head, my loose red hair falls over my shoulders in dark waves, and I raise the phone again, flipping to the mirror so the full outfit shows.
The lace hugs my curves, and my supple skin glows under the light.
Screw Lawrence for calling my body "standard" that day.
I snap a few shots, then drop to my knees on the rug, arching my back and giving the camera that submissive, bedroom-eyed look.
Click. Click. Click.
More snaps.
I lose track of time. The longer I pose, the more I start enjoying it.
When I'm eventually done, I flop onto the sofa, still in the lingerie and scroll through the pictures, proud of myself.
Five turn out to be my favourites. One from the mirror (full body, sultry stare), two on my knees (one with hair tossed back, one biting my lip), a close-up of my cleavage with the cross straps, and a playful over-the-shoulder shot that shows the thong ties.
I hesitate for a second.
Kieran and I have had flirty texts, naughty innuendos, but nothing like this.
We haven't engaged in the mutual sharing of explicit photos or even had a proper sex talk yet. So I'm a bit nervous about how he would react.
Would he think it's too much? Or too soon?
I'm doing it anyway, so fuck it.
I select the five and attach them to a message, "thought you might like a preview before tomorrow", and hit send.
The little blue bar races across the screen.
Sent.
Satisfied, I drop the phone onto the cushion beside me and stand.
Time to wash the makeup off my face.
I won't change out of the lingerie yet in case he wants to do a video call, and I cannot be caught looking unsexy.
As I head towards the bathroom, I expect to hear multiple pings notifying me of his reply, but I hear nothing.
Maybe he's in a meeting or something. My mind says.
But on a Saturday evening? I highly doubt that.
It takes ten minutes to get the makeup off my face, and I stride back into the living room to pick up my phone.
Maybe I shouldn't have sent those photos to him.
I open Messages and freeze, the blood draining from my face.
The five photos are there and were sent successfully.
But the recipient's name at the top isn't Kieran Black.
It's Lawrence Moore.
"No. No no no no no…!!!!" I exclaim.
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
I tap frantically to delete, but nothing happens.
It's been delivered... read, in fact, since the ten minutes ago I sent it.
And without a reply too. Just the little "seen" marker staring back at me.
I want to die.
How the fuck did this happen?
I pace the living room, still in the lingerie, my heart slamming hard against my ribs.
I must have carelessly clicked the wrong thread because his name is pinned in my chat box as my boss.
Holy fucking hell.
What sort of mistake did I make?
I start to fan myself with my hand despite the air conditioning.
"Breathe, Scarlett, breathe. He's in London. He's thousands of miles away." I tell myself. "By the time he gets back, it'll have been days. Weeks, maybe. The embarrassment will fade."
Out of anger, I delete every single photo I took. Then I throw my phone across the couch for betraying me.
It lands face down, and I don't even check if the screen cracked.
I need to do something before I spiral into full panic mode and die of pure mortification.
Stalking to the fridge, I yank open the door and grab the half-empty bottle of red wine I bought last weekend, tilting it straight to my lips and taking a long, reckless swig.
Maybe if I get tipsy enough, this won't feel like the end of the world.
Four gulps later, my panic starts to fade.
I drop onto the sofa, still in the black lace lingerie that started this whole disaster, and grab the remote.
I put on some trashy reality show to take my mind off things, laughing louder than necessary at every dramatic line.
Before I even realise it, an hour passes.
The alcohol has dulled my nerves to an impressive degree, and I've almost convinced myself the photos never happened... that Lawrence is still in London, probably too busy with his sick mother to check his messages.
My phone remains silent on the cushion beside me. I don't even get a reprimand or an angry text from him.
No reply at all.
"Motherfucker," I curse, finally getting up, wobbling just a little.
I need to change out of this stupid lingerie before I feel even more ridiculous.
I'm on my way to the bathroom when the doorbell rings.
"Coming!" I yell way too loudly. The wine has loosened my tongue.
Snagging my silk robe from the bathroom hook, I tie it hastily around my waist, not bothering with the sash properly, and stumble to the door.
I forget to glance through the peephole before swinging it open, a loud gasp leaving my throat.
Lawrence Moore stands in the hallway.
And immediately, every drop of drunkenness evaporates in a second.
He's back in one of his signature suits—this time a charcoal black Armani that looks like it was poured over him, hugging every line of his broad shoulders. My breath stops.
"Lawr…Mr. Moore," I correct myself quickly. "W-what are you… You're supposed to be in London…"
Fuck the alcohol, I'm stuttering like an imbecile.
He doesn't wait for me to finish, pushing the door wider with one hand and stepping inside.
I back up instinctively, the robe gaping slightly, exposing the fact that underneath it, I'm still wearing the lingerie.
His gaze drops to the opening, and something hot and dangerous flares in his eyes.
"I was on a very important business call on my way back from the airport," he begins calmly, tucking his arms into his pockets. "When your pictures came through, Miss Thorn."
My face burns so badly I feel dizzy.
"It was a mistake. I didn't mean to…"
"Oh, I know it was a mistake", he steps closer, anger in his eyes now as he quotes my text. "'Thought you might like a preview before tomorrow'?"
I swallow.
"Who's he?" Lawrence's voice drops dangerously low. "Kieran?"
"It's none of your business," I mutter.
"Answer me." He commands
"Yes."
"So you have a date with him tomorrow." He states, sneering.
"Yes, and I don't see how that is any of your business." I snap. "Why are you back so soon?"
I immediately regret asking that because I know he travelled to London to see his sick mother.
What if she had died?
"I'm sorry, that sounded insensitive." I apologise quickly. "How's your mum?"
"I don't want to talk about my mum, Scarlett," he says roughly. "Show me."
"What?" I ask in a whisper, my heart beating fast.
Lawrence's eyes burn with desire from behind the frames of his glasses. "Show me," he repeats. "In person. The pictures weren't enough."
Goosebumps rise on my flesh as I stare back at him.
The rational thing would be to push him away. To tell him to leave.
But instead, I start to loosen the tie holding the robe together and let it fall to my feet.