Page 92 of Lethal in Pink

“I’ve missed a few hours of sleep.”

“Go to bed, then.”

“In a minute,” I say.

“Or you could stay.” she grins.

“And why would you want me to do that?.” I ask, and I can’t help the smile slowly curling the edges of my moth.

She moves without warning. One moment she’s centered in the frame; the next, she’s unplugging the laptop from her dock, lifting it, and carrying it across the room. The camera bounces slightly with her stride before she sets it down on the glass-topped vanity against her bedroom wall, angling the screen toward her reflection. Suddenly I’m seeing double—Amiyah from the front, her blonde hair catching the pink glow, and Amiyah from behind, captured in the cold glass of the mirror, the pink halo casting a hazy, double-vision duplication that makes my throat lock up.

She squares the hinge, leans back slightly, and just watches me.

“Don’t you dare look away,” she says, her voice dropping into a register that vibrates right through my headphones.

I don’t.

I can’t.

Her fingers hook into the hem of her tank top. She pulls it up and over in one fluid motion, revealing the small, high curve of her voluptuous breasts, the silver chain biting into the hollow of her throat, and the pale plane of her stomach. She doesn’t rush. Every micro-expression is laid bare across the Pacific.

In Seoul, my room is dead quiet. The illumination of the display throws long shadows across the mahogany dresser as my hand moves from the keyboard down to my lap.My cock throbs against the inside of my joggers, swollen and leaking, the seam of the fabric pressing into me with every shift of my hips—each tiny movement sending a sharp, insistent pulse straight up my spine.

She reaches off-screen for a second before returning, placing a sleek, matte-silicone toy beside the laptop base. It catches the pink light—heavy, veined, built for a purpose we’ve skirted around for weeks. She places it within arm’s reach with the practical efficiency she brought to everything.

Then her hands hook into the elastic of her shorts, shoving them down her thighs in one unhurried motion, kicking them free somewhere off-camera. She’s bare now, her knees parting slightly on the vanity stool, one hand anchoring her weight while the other picks up the silicone.

The toy glistens as she brings it between her thighs. I can see the pale curve of her hips, the heavy, glistening folds of her pussy slick with her own arousal. Her fingers part herself, rubbing a slow circle over her clit before pressing the smooth, heavy tip of the toy directly against her entrance. Her hips hitch upward, swallowing the first inch with a wet, audible slide that the webcam mic picks up clearly.

She lets out a shuddering breath, her head tipping back against the mirror. The sound hits me like a physical touch, low and warm through the headphones, and my hand moves to my own lap without conscious decision. I pull my joggers down, freeing my cock, which is already hot, throbbing, and leaking against my stomach. The friction of my palm wrapping tight against my shaft draws a quiet, ragged sound from my throat that I don’t bother trying to suppress.

“Watch every second of this,” she murmurs, her voice thick, those blue eyes burning straight into the lens. “I want you to see what you do to me from eight thousand miles away.”

I am watching. I haven’t looked away. Her eyes are locked on the camera, on my face on her screen, and the intensity of that connection sends a heavy heat straight through my chest.

She starts to move—slow, rolling thrusts of the toy, burying it deep into her wet heat before sliding it back almost to the hilt, her hips lifting to meet every stroke. The pink glow turns her skin gold, catches the sheen of sweat beginning to form along her collarbone, and behind her, through the mirror, I can see the doubled image—Amiyah from behind, her spine arched, her buttocks clenching with every inward push of the dildo, and Amiyah from the front, her mouth open around raw, wet gasps she’s not bothering to hold back.

“Jae,” she breathes, and the way she says my name—wrecked, honest, stripped of every defense—nearly undoes me right there.

My hand moves faster, pumping up and down in fierce, rhythmic strokes. Pre-cum slicks my palm, making the friction smooth and frantic. On screen, Amiyah’s pace breaks into something harsher, her hips rocking savagely against the base of the toy, the wet slapping sound echoing straight through my speakers.

“Ohhh, ohhhh god,” she sobs out, her fingers digging deep into the marble surface of the vanity as her pace shatters entirely. “Jae, I’m—I’m coming, Jae!”

The sound of her breaking apart rips the breath straight from my lungs. I lean into the monitor, my vision blurring at the edges, my free hand gripping my shaft with desperate, punishing friction.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, jagiya,” I choke out, the foreign pet name tearing past my lips for the first time, thick and desperate in the dark room. “God, look at you…look at your pretty little pussy dripping for me, take it all—!”

She shatters with a broken cry, her body locking rigid against the vanity, her eyes rolling back as wave after wave of violent contractions wring every drop of pleasure from her twitching walls. The toy buzzes furiously against her soaked pussy, milking her climax while she whimpers.

Seeing her break open is the final shove I need. My own release rips through my groin, blinding and intense. I pump my hand twice, three times, shooting thick, hot ropes of cum across my stomach and onto my fingers, my whole body shuddering as I groan her name into the dark room.

For a long time after, neither of us moves. Just the sound of our breathing over the mic, slowing down across eight thousand miles. Amiyah’s chest rises and falls in the pink glow, a thin sheen of sweat catching the light along her collarbone. She reaches for a wet wipe from the pack on her vanity, cleaning herself and wiping down the silicone with efficient, methodical precision before tossing it aside.

On my end, I grab an old cotton t-shirt bundled up on top of a moving box beside my desk, using it to roughly wipe the warm mess from my stomach and fingers before pulling my joggers back up into place.

I hit the power switch on my desktop tower, plunging the desk into sudden, complete darkness.

Unplugging my laptop from the dock with a nimble click, I tuck the device under one arm, push away from the desk, and cross the expansive room toward the massive king-sized bed centered against the far wall. The hardwood floorboards are silent beneath my bare feet. I slide under the heavy winter duvet, propping the laptop against my bent knees, the screen casting a pale, warm wash across the sheets.