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This has never felt as good as it does right now. The finger on my nipple continues to move, pulling and tugging at the flesh, a direct course to my throbbing clit that’s being strummed in tandem.
That’s my girl. Are you gonna come for your man?the voice in my head asks, the mystery man still made of fog and shadows, but just the thought of it—of a man’s voice urging me on, of his fingers fucking me, of the promise of a more that I haven’t had in far too long—it has me on the edge.
I’m close.
I’m so damned close to exploding.
The music on my phone quiets, but I’m so far in my mind that I don’t register the fact. My breathing has gone heavier. My mind continues to craft the vision of the mysterious man, thumb on my clit, hovering over me, breath in my ear.
That’s it. Are you going to come for me, Lola? Are you going to shout my name?
I moan. The man is starting to clear, going from a foggy, vague ghost of a person to a recognizable voice that I know. I know it, but I can’t place it.
I don’t dwell, though. The feeling is building in my belly, burning bright as I continue to rub my clit, dipping into my wet and dragging it up.
I’m so close.
And right as I reach the top of the hill, as it builds to the point that I have to break, the vision clears.
Dark, old-school tattoos line the tanned arm that’s working my clit in my imagination. It’s attached to broad shoulders, and a familiar grin is on the face.
“That’s it, sweet girl. Come for me,”the voice I now recognize says into my mind, and as I come, I make a fatal mistake. I moan his name out loud.
“Oh, God, Ben!” I shout as the heat takes over me, my back arching, leaving only my shoulders still on the bed, ears buzzing. “Yes!”
And as I come down from my high, breathing heavy, I don’t even hear the annoying voice of the lady who lives in my phone saying, “Message sent.”
Twenty-One
-Ben-
Five minutes earlier
“You needto reach out to Lola, ask what she’s donating to the auction,” Hattie says, poking her head into the break room. My next client isn’t due for another 30 minutes, and I’m spending it hiding from the world and trying to forget what happened this morning.
That kiss.
Thatfuckingkiss.
That kiss should never have happened.
The first one was anger and rage and frustration.
A simple slip-up that we both could have forgotten.
The second one?
It was none of that. It was none of that and so much more. And then, for whatever fucking reason, she ended it and acted like it didn’t matter, telling some lie about the marks on her wrist and pushing me to leave.
That bruise was not from a bag.
It was not from a friend.
It was from a man, and it was not a hold she wanted.
You learn something when you work with people who are trusting you to embellish their bodies in permanent ways. You connect with them, hear their stories, and know their lives. But most of all, you learn to read them.
And the words and tales I read in Lola—in her eyes, in her face, in her body language?
