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Sliding through the contacts, I landed on Romero and hit call.
It rang once. Twice. Then, it went to voicemail.
I frowned. Did he just ignore my call?
Visions of him pounding into another woman from behind, her breathy moans spurring him on, made my blood boil with rage.
If Arie was still in town I’d try to camp out at hers in a heartbeat, but with her on the other side of the country, I was screwed.
I tossed my phone onto the bed and glared at it as though it had personally offended me. Opening my book again, I stared down at the words, but didn’t comprehend a single one. My mind wandered instead, to imagining it was me Romero rutted into like a wild animal. A tingling started on the flesh of my ass, remembering his bruising smacks, and I wondered what they’d feel like with his cock buried inside my pussy.
My hand moved unbidden to the little bundle of nerves that now throbbed. Over my jean shorts, I stroked my aching clit. Setting the book aside, I lay back and grabbed my two favorite tools before stripping off my shorts and panties. For a moment I paused. Then I sat up, slid off my shirt too, and unhooked my bra to toss it onto the floor. Cool air kissed my hardening nipples. My skin pebbled with goose bumps and I sighed.
If only Romero could see me now, I thought.
My lips slowly slipped to a smile. Reaching for my phone, I unlocked the screen and held it up to snap a picture of my naked body. One hand resumed the work of rubbing my clit, and I took another photo.
For a brief moment I considered “accidentally” sending them to him. At least then I was nearly guaranteed to get a reaction, right?
But I wanted to feel like he was watching me while I pleasured myself. I rolled over the side of the bed, set my phone on the desk, and hit record. My smile grew wicked as I crawled—what I hoped was seductively—back onto the bed, making sure the camera angle got the perfect view of my ass and my swollen, wet pussy.
I lay down, adjusting my position so my phone could see it all. The vibrator clicked on and I set it against my clit, a moan wrenching from me instantly. Next, I grabbed the dildo and rubbed it at my entrance, collecting my juices before inching it in slowly. My breath hitched and I closed my eyes, picturing Romero sitting at my desk instead. His dark eyes turning hungry as they narrowed on the ministrations at my pussy, tracking each slow stroke of the dildo in and out.
Biting my lip, I arched my back, offering my tits to the empty air above me, desperate for a hot mouth to cover them. I imagined him rising from my desk and stalking toward me, causing a shiver to race up my spine. Romero standing over me, watching me fuck myself, so close but never touching me, was both the hottest thing and the greatest torture I could possibly imagine.
“Romero,” I moaned. “Lick my nipples. Please.”
His crooked smile filled my mind and he bent to take what I was offering. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, holding onto the image of his tongue flicking over my pale pink buds.
“What I really want to lick is down here,” he rasped.
“Yes, Romero, please. Eat my pussy.” Part of me couldn’t believe what I was saying, or that I was recording it. But I gave into the fantasy and imagined him sucking my tits like his life depended on it, whispering how beautiful and perfect they were.
Shattering, I screamed out his name as my orgasm rocketed through my body, my back bowing with exquisite pleasure.
When the high ebbed, I looked over to my phone, my smile fading. I sprang from the bed and ended the recording, then cleaned myself up in the bathroom. My sense of guilt only grew.
I looked up from the sink, meeting the eyes of my reflection in the mirror.
“What’s wrong with me?” I asked, as though the girl staring back at me might answer.
But only the sound of running water filled the silence.
* * *
Romero didn’t come home on Monday either, though I waited up for him until after one in the morning. Nor did he return Tuesday, or Wednesday. By Thursday night I was sufficiently worried. I called his cell twice during the week and left two voicemails asking if he was even alive. On Thursday night—or Friday morning, more specifically—at a few minutes past midnight, I received a text message that simply read: Go to sleep, Julietta.
I don’t know how he knew I was still awake, unless he stood outside the house and happened to see that my bedroom light was still on. I huffed and promptly switched it off before trying to get some sleep. At least he’s alive, I thought.
When my alarm woke me up far too early for my liking, I headed downstairs and poured myself a mug of coffee. It was my last weekday shift at Jean’s shop since classes began on Monday.
Outside, the air was brisk. Autumn was settling in. I clutched my mug with both hands, fingers savoring the warmth. I was early for my morning ride, so I dropped onto the cool bench to wait. Across the street, a man stood talking on his cellphone. He had a lean, muscular build. Though he wasn’t nearly as tall as Romero, his skin was the same tawny shade. His eyes were hidden behind narrow sunglasses, the tint too dark, but still I felt his gaze on me.
I couldn’t make out anything he was saying, but my skin prickled. This is California, there are a lot of people that I don’t know and at least half of them act suspicious for no reason at all, I assured myself.
Finally, others began to gather to wait for the bus and the man turned the corner, disappearing from sight. Before long the bus cruised down the street, stopping with an annoying screech. The doors slid open and I hastened to get inside where it was slightly warmer.
Once in the seat, I relaxed, popping in my four-dollar earbuds to listen to my music. The tension that coursed through me dissipated, the man long forgotten when the bus made it to my stop.
