“That’s right.”
“I imagine what you feel when you touch me here.”
He’s quiet on the other end.
“How soft it must feel.”
“Very.”
“If you touch me here, do you immediately want to push into me?”
“Yes,” he says with an edge, repeating more quietly, “Yes.”
I arch my neck, stroking. “It feels good.”
“Explain, if you don’t mind?”
“I’m imagining you kissing me here,” I say, and my skin grows warm, humming. “And how you started with just kissing but then licked me.”
“That sounds like a good progression.”
I love the deep rumble of his voice. “You were so sweet,” I say. “But when you put your fingers in…”
He’s quiet, but I can almost hear how he strains to hear every word.
“You just,” I say, pleasure climbing, “you fucked me.”
“Georgia.” A sharp, breathless reprimand, but it only makes me moan.
“So hard,” I whisper. “You were wild.”
“I know. I was.”
“Oh God, you liked it, didn’t you? How many fingers?”
“You tell me.”
“Three.” My fingers circle; tension builds in my spine. “I couldn’t spread my legs any wider.”
“I know.”
“Are you hard?”
“Without question.” A car door slams, I hear his short, broken gusts as he walks. Very quietly he manages, “Use your other hand to touch your breasts.”
I do, and my eyes roll back, another sound escapes. “I’m close.”
“Not yet.” He’s moving through a building. I hear him murmur a quiet thanks to someone.
“It feels so good,” I whisper.
“Continue.”
“But not as good as you feel.”
A quiet laugh. “I’m very glad to hear that.”
I’m reduced to this pinpoint of focus, breathing in, and out, imagining his head between my legs, his silken dark hair sliding through my fingers. “I want to grab your hair.”