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"Fuck."
"And I want your face in it. I want to see the desire in your eyes."
"Not sure I can capture my eyes."
"The mouth then. I love your mouth."
He lets out a heavy sigh, moves, and adjusts something.
My phone buzzes with an image.
Patrick, from his nose to his thighs, buck naked, his hand wrapped around his cock.
It's not the most likely angle or the best lighting, but I love it all the same. More because it's rushed and needy and desperate.
"Please," I say it again. "Fuck yourself. For me."
His breaths run together.
A moan falls from his lips.
Then something deeper, needier.
"Come for me." I blush, but I press on. "Please. I want to hear you."
He lets out a low, deep groan.
And he lets go. Those beautiful, perfect sounds run together. His movements speed.
And then he’s there, groaning my name into the receiver, working through his orgasm.
There's something about hearing him, sharing this fantasy, a whole other kind of intimacy.
It feels really fucking good.
He catches his breath and mutters obscenities into the phone.
"Thank you," I say.
He laughs. "Thank you again?"
"It worked the first time."
"I like it."
"Is it sexy?" I ask.
"Yeah. It's Imogen."
"Then you're welcome. Or thank you. I'm not sure where that lands."
"Me either."
"Is it okay if I sign off?" I ask. "I do have a lot of homework."
"If I see you Friday night."
"Do we have to talk?"
