Page 46 of Surviving in Clua


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“What are you wearing?”

I snort, shake my head, a stupid grin on my face, the lightness of her tone shoving its way past the barricades I’ve put up in the name of self-preservation. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yes.”

“You sleep naked when you’re alone?” She tuts. “I feel cheated.”

“It’s hot here. No AC.”

“You know you could embellish a bit… I’ve been waiting for you, baby… naked and hard and allllll for you.” She puts on an 80’s porn voice, laughing at herself with an ease I can’t remember her ever having around me.

“You should laugh like that more often.”

“Are you flirting with me, Mylooooo?”

“Yes. No…” I wince. Scratch my forehead. “Maybe.”

She laughs again and it has a husk to it that I feel in every single part of me. My brain. My chest. My dick.

“Black lace panties,” she whispers down the line when her laughter fades. “And a smile… in case you were wondering.”

Whatever resistance or restraints I had left disintegrates. “Those short things you sleep in?”

“No. Smaller. Lacier. And much, much more revealing. If you were here, I’d show you.” She laughs again. It’s not a nervous laugh, it’s a teasing laugh. A laugh I want to hear over and over again. “Oooor, if you were here, I’d take them off.” There’s something in her tone that sounds like even now, like this, she’s waiting for me to back down—to walk away.

I grind my teeth and shake my head. Push the past—the future—the what-fucking-ifs down and concentrate on now. Only now. On this.

“Take them off.” I wrap my fingers around my dick and shift down the bed a little more, heat seeping up the back of my neck picturing her, all smooth golden skin, and long, toned thighs, sliding off the flimsy strip of black lace between me and the one thing I’d convinced myself I’ll never have. “Spread your legs for me.”

“Are you picturing it?”

Christ she’s practically purring.

“Yes.” I pump my fist in one slow stroke, my abs tight, imagining what she’d look like. Here. In this room. Stripping naked at the foot of my bed. Climbing up to straddle my lap. Her pussy sliding over my dick.

She breathes down the line in a fluttery little half-moan. “If I were there would you let me touch you?”

“If you were here I’d let you whatever you want to me.” My teeth grind against the twist of longing for this to be real—for it to be her hand wrapped around my dick. Sweat prickles over my forehead, my whole body aching, my fist tightening its grip on its next stroke.

“Would you kiss me?”

“Everywhere.” The scene plays out in my mind. Her eyes are closed, back arched, tits brushing my lips. It’s so vivid I can smell her. Taste her.Feelher skin against mine.

“I’d like that,” she whispers. “Are you touching yourself, Mylo?”

“Yes.” I pump my fist again, eyes shut to focus on her voice and the memory of her face. “Tell me what you think about when you make yourself come.”

Her breath catches, then picks up. “I think about you. I think about what would have happened if you didn’t stop the other night. If you’d slid your hand into my shorts and found me wet. Sometimes you drop to your knees right there on the landing. Shove my shorts down and…” The words fall out in a rush, then trail off just as fast.

“And?” There’s a rough strain to my voice that gives away the fact that my whole fucking world has shrunk down to this moment. To her.

“Shit.” She laughs again. “I can’t believe I’m doing thi—”

“Kenzi… tell me what happens next.” I urge her on. I don’t want this to stop. I can guess but fuck if I don’t need to hear the words in her softly lilted accent, in the sexy as fuck husk I could listen to all night long.

“You throw my leg over your shoulder and lick me.”

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