Never Reply To A Text Past 10, Unless You Wanna Mess Your Sheets

I replied to Daniel.

Not the same night. Not even the next day. I let the message sit there like a quiet dare until I got tired of pretending I wasn’t going to answer.

Still thinking about it too. Free Thursday?

His reply came fast.

Thursday works. I’ll pick a place.

Thursday evening I met him at a low-key wine bar. Dim lights, soft music, the kind of place that makes everything feel more intentional than it is. He stood when I arrived. Smiled that careful smile. Told me I looked nice like he was still measuring how much he was allowed to mean it.

We talked. The chemistry was still there — quiet, familiar, a little frustrating. Every time the air got heavier, Daniel steered us back to safe topics. Work. Music. Some random story about church basketball. He was still taking his time. The same pace that had kept me overthinking for weeks.

Halfway through my second glass, a voice cut in.

“Dan? You didn’t say you were coming here.”

I looked up.

The guy standing at the edge of our table was taller, darker shirt, easier posture. Like he walked into rooms expecting them to adjust around him. His eyes landed on me and stayed a second longer than polite.

Daniel stood, surprised but smiling. “Didn’t know you’d be around. Nanjala, this is Malik. My boy from campus. Malik, Nanjala.”

Malik’s handshake was firm. Warm. He didn’t let go immediately.

“Nanjala,” he repeated, like he was testing how it felt. “You look like the reason Dan’s been distracted lately.”

I laughed, a little too quickly. “Is that so?”

Daniel cleared his throat. “We’re just catching up.”

Malik pulled a chair without waiting for an invitation. “Then I’ll catch up with you.”

The next twenty minutes were a quiet disaster.

Malik was the opposite of careful. Direct questions. Dry teasing. When I made a sharp comment he actually laughed like he meant it. At some point his knee brushed mine under the table and he didn’t move it. I didn’t either.

Daniel noticed. His smiles got tighter.

Eventually Daniel checked his phone and stood. “I need to take this. Two minutes.”

He stepped away.

Malik watched him go, then turned back to me like we’d been waiting for the privacy.

“So,” he said, voice lower. “How long has he been taking his time with you?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying. You’re sitting here looking like that, and he’s still doing the polite pace. Interesting strategy.”

I should have defended Daniel. Instead I heard myself say, “Maybe I needed the slow pace.”

Malik’s mouth curved. “Did you?”

He leaned in slightly.

“I’m not slow,” he said simply. “In case you were wondering.”

My pulse jumped.

Then he stood. “I’m going to the bathroom. If you happen to need some air in the next two minutes… the hallway by the restrooms is quiet.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

I sat there for four full seconds.

Then I picked up my bag and followed.

The hallway was narrow and dim. Malik was leaning against the wall like he’d known I would come. We didn’t talk much. He just looked at me, really looked, and said, “Number.”

I gave it to him.

He typed it in, called so I’d have his, then stepped a little closer. Not touching. Just close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him.

“I’m going to text you,” he said. “And you’re going to want to answer.”

I didn’t reply. I just walked back to the table before Daniel finished his call.

The rest of the night with Daniel was polite. Pleasant. Slow.

I got home a little after eleven. Showered. Tried to sleep.

At 2:03 a.m. my phone lit up.

Malik wanted to know if I made it home safe or if I was still pretending I hadn’t already made a bad decision in that hallway. I should have ignored it. Instead I told him I was still deciding.

He didn’t let me stay indecisive for long.

He told me to put my hand between my legs and describe exactly how wet I was. My face burned but my hand still slid under the waistband of my shorts. I was already dripping. I told him so.

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He ordered me to touch my clit in slow circles and not to rush. Then he told me to open my legs wider. He wanted me messy for him. When I admitted how slippery and warm I felt, he told me to push two fingers inside myself — deep — and fuck myself the way he would if he were there.

I did it. The wet sound was disgusting and addictive. He told me to go faster, to curl my fingers, to make sure I was dripping down my own wrist. My hips lifted off the bed without permission. I was shaking, right on the edge.

Then he told me to stop.

Just like that.

He made me pull my fingers out, lick them clean, and go to sleep with my cunt still aching and empty. He finished by promising that tomorrow he would do all of it in person — and that I was going to let him.

I locked the phone, fingers still shiny, heart slamming against my ribs.

Daniel had spent weeks being careful with me.

Malik had needed one hallway, a few filthy orders, and less than ten minutes to have me dripping, obedient, and desperate at 2 a.m.

And the worst part?

I was already waiting for tomorrow.