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“I’m touching myself.”
“Specifics, Sophia. Are your fingers in your pussy or rubbing your clit?”
“My clit. I’m pretending you’re sucking it, but you keep pulling away because you don’t want me to come until you’re inside of me.”
Jesus, fuck.
She’s too good at this. Way too good at this. I can picture exactly what she’s describing, teasing her until she’s desperate for my dick.
“How would you want it? Hard and fast, or slow and sweet?”
“Hard and fast,” she gasps. “Oh God, Will. I’m so close.”
I can hear the slick sound of her fingers. Her rapid breaths. Imagine exactly how she looks, legs spread and pink pussy glistening.
I’m not there. But it’s so easy to imagine I am. How she smells, how she tastes—it’s all imprinted in my brain now. She moans again, and my dick swells even more, growing longer in my hand. Blood is rushing to my cock so fast that I feel dizzy, the haze of pleasure overtaking everything else.
My cock is fully erect, pre-cum beaded at the tip. My balls are drawn up high and tight, not even caring they’re about to empty into a tissue instead of her tight cunt. My grip tightens, beating off so hard that she can probably hear me too.
“If I were there, I’d be inside of you. Watching you spread around me. You always take me so well, squeeze me so tight until I’m pumping you full of my cum?—”
She’s coming, her moans and pants and my name pushing me over the edge too. The pressure at the base of my spine explodes, heat zinging along every nerve ending as my cock swells and jerks, white ropes of cum coating my hand then dripping on the floor. I grab some tissues from the box by the toilet, using them to clean up the mess.
I’m still breathing heavily when I toss the tissues in the trash, gripping the cool marble edge of the counter surrounding the sink as my racing heartbeat starts to slow to a normal rhythm.
“Fuck. I need a shower.”
“I’d lick you clean if I were there.”
I groan as I kick off my sweatpants. “You’re gonna get me hard again.”
“Sorry.”
She doesn’t sound the least bit sorry. She sounds happy. Satisfied.
I grab the edge of the counter again, tightening my hold as I deliberate how—if—I should bring this up. I decided against it, until she called.
Sophia speaks before I can. “I submitted my photo to the EPAs.”
“Yeah? Which one did you pick?”
She narrowed it down to three last night, two from the national park where we had gone hiking last weekend. I’d carried her camera equipment for most of the trip, and my shoulder is still sore.
“The one of the park, in the Nature category.”
“That’s awesome, Soph. Congrats.”
“Thanks.”
“We’re playing Manchester tomorrow,” I blurt with absolutely no preamble.
“I mean, I knew that since you’re in London.”
A pause, where neither of us say anything.
I clear my throat. “Is it the same guy?”
The star player on Manchester right now is a German—named Ansel Fischer.
