Random things. Ridiculous things, sort of, which made them all the more important to him for some reason. Think of her at a certain time on the clock. Wear a specific tie. Order something particular for lunch delivery. Spend an hour exercising, then treat himself to his favorite beer. Text her a picture of his socks. She was big on pictures of what he was wearing, which was really silly since she could see his clothes at any time. It wasn’t the photos themselves, Caite had told him, whispering in the darkness with her hand idly stroking his cock and stopping just before he came, so that he’d been floating in a haze of arousal he thought might kill him—and that he’d gladly die from. It wasn’t the photos but the fact he was doing it for her because she’d asked it of him. No matter what it was. She liked making the lists because she said it meant he’d be thinking about how to please her all day long. Like foreplay for hours. As if he wouldn’t be thinking about her all day anyway, Jamison thought.
