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She nods once.
“I doubt it’s much of a surprise that I’ve been thinking a lot about what you’re like in bed.”
She grins and turns her head, eyeing me from the side. “And what am I like in bed?”
“Sweet, just like your last name implies. And sassy, and so fucking sexy. And the way you taste.” I make a low, appreciative sound. “So fucking good.” I ease a hand down my stomach and grip my erection through my jogging pants. “And then I start thinking about what it’s like to be inside you, the way you sound, how fucking phenomenal you feel, and I don’t want to stop.”
She uncrosses her legs, folds the right one over the left, and runs her palm down her shin. “I think about all the same things.”
“But you try not to?” I ask.
“I should. I used to, but I can’t anymore.” She tilts her head to the side. “What are you doing over there?”
“Missing your hands and your mouth and your sweet, sweet . . .” I grin. “Disposition.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I mean, what are you doing with your hands? And don’t answer my question with a question.”
My smile widens. “Would you believe me if I said I was making cranes?”
“No.”
“You ever had phone sex before?” I circle the crown with my thumb and grin when her cheeks turn pink.
“No, have you?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Wanna get off with me?”
Her tongue peeks out. “I don’t have a lot of privacy here.”
“You don’t think you can be quiet?” I taunt.
“I’d like to suck that smirk right off your face.”
“I’d like you to suck something else off.”
She barks out a laugh, then slaps a palm over her mouth. “Give me a second.” She moves out of view of the video, and less than a minute later, she returns and drops a bunch of stuff on the bed, pushing it to the side.
“What’s all that?” I ask.
“Props.” She holds up a small bottle of lube and waves it in front of the camera. She drops it on the comforter and grabs the hem of her tank, lifting it over her head. “Get naked with me.”
Twenty-Six
Boxed in
Clover
Even though I miss Maverick, I have New Year’s with him to look forward to, and it’s nice to spend time with my family. Everything is going great until Gabriel shows up on Christmas Day—conveniently an hour before dinner. And in true Gabriel fashion, he arrives laden with gifts and flowers.
My mother ushers him into the kitchen, where I’m busy pouring holiday sangria into glasses. I’m so shocked—though I probably shouldn’t be—that I drop the glass I’m holding, and it shatters on the floor.
I also lose my filter. “What the hell are you doing here?”
My mother rushes over to help with the glass, mouthingI’m sorry, but I put up a hand. “It’s all over the floor. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
The room is suddenly tense with the awkwardness of the situation. My mother hates to be rude, and I’m sure she has no idea how to handle this—not to mention still wrapping her mind around it.
When I first left Gabriel, my parents thought it was temporary, but I made them promise not to tell him where I was or give him any information regarding my whereabouts. I know my parents support my decision to leave him now, even if it took them a while to fully understand how awful my marriage became.
