“Very much so.”
I swallow audibly. “I feel a little self-conscious.”
“That’s fine,” he says. “Take your time.”
Am I doing this? I close my eyes, letting the calm resonance of his voice bring me to a place where I can begin to pretend my hand is him, that he’s not in a car somewhere, listening to my every sound.
“Do you remember how I sat on your lap that day?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“I made you stay still so I could kiss you all over your face.” He hums in acknowledgment. “I think I wanted to convince myself you were real.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And you let me. But you slid your hands up under my shirt.”
He pauses. “I recall.”
“I love the way your big hands hold me.”
“Hold what part, specifically.”
“My breasts.”
“That’s right.” His voice is so measured and professional and somehow it makes my skin heat.
“You rolled over onto me,” I say, teasing the peak. “You love my chest.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
He clears his throat. Right.
But then he answers anyway. “It’s the ideal proportion.”
I laugh into the phone. “That sounded porny. I bet the driver is listening now.”
“I doubt it.” Alec laughs quietly. “Go ahead.”
“You like the taste of my skin?”
A deceptively even: “Very much.”
My hand moves lower. “I wish you were here kissing me.”
“Where are you in the script right now,” he says, “if I may ask?”
“Your mouth is kissing down my stomach.”
“Okay. Continue.”
I reach lower, and suck in a breath. “I’m wet.”
He can’t stifle a quiet groan.
“I haven’t done this in—” I pull in more air, imagining him feeling this. “Since before London. Before you.”