I don’t know why I’m shocked when he untucks himself from his pants, but I am. It’s not just big, it’s perfect-looking. Literally the prettiest dick I’ve ever seen. Long and tan and satiny smooth, a little curved, just the right amount of curve. As I stare, my brain has the urge to intellectualize this moment, because it’s obvious that he’s a shower not a grower, and I find it weirdly hilarious, but also mildly disturbing because I realize I’ve never seen a dick like this IRL. And now I’m trying to imagine running or riding a bike with something of this magnitude between my legs, which makes me want to laugh even more, but I don’t, and when I glance back up, he has this smile on his face, so completely aware of himself, and it makes me want him that much more. It feels so good—this rush. A different kind of high. Like someone’s flipped on a switch.

He shifts closer to me, shielding himself from the crowd, and leans in. “This good enough for you?”

I can’t stop staring. I hate that I can’t stop staring.

“Go ahead, touch it,” he says as if reading my mind, and I want to ask him if he has an OnlyFans because he seems like the type that would. But I don’t ask.

I like the way he looks at me, so direct and unafraid, and I wonder what kind of faces he makes when he comes.

I want to touch him so bad. I look him over and notice his body for the first time. He’s taller than I realized, maybe six-three. He looks like the kind of guy I could lose my thoughts in, forget every problem. It hurts to remember. And just like that I realize I need him.

As soon as we get upstairs to my room, his hands are all over me, wide and warm, pulling at my dress, at my body. His mouth finds my neck, the tender skin behind my ear.

“Is that your spot?”

He has me against the wall. Soft lips. Tongue velvet against my throat. I let out a breath. “One of them,” I say, and then his hand is on my thigh, between my legs.

He trails kisses along my shoulder and collarbone, whispering something else I can’t make out, but I don’t need foreplay. I’m tired of the talking. I want to tell him to shut up, just shut the fuck up, because every time he says something, it pulls me back into the moment, back to reality, and I don’t want to think. I don’t want to remember that he’s a stranger. That he’s not Nate.

I push him down onto the couch and crawl on top of his big body. “Condom?”

“Pocket.”