“Lift your shirt,” I tell her, and she does, slowly and deliberately, never breaking eye contact. “I want to pinch those perfect nipples, to suck on them, to bite them.”
“Do you want that?” I ask.
“Yes,” she breathes. “Yes, I want it. I want more.”
“I want it, too,” I say, getting so close to coming. “I want your perfect lips on my cock. I want to spill myself inside of you, down your throat. I want to fill you with my fingers and my dick. I want you so full you can’t breathe. I want you to come for me, screaming my name. I want that with you, Emma. I want it so bad.”
She tenses, breath catching, body arching as a sound breaks from her throat — low, raw, and beautiful.
Watching her unravel like that does something to me I can’t explain. I lose my shit at that sound, the air between us thick with heat and connection, even through the screen.
When it’s over, she exhales a shaky laugh, brushing her hair back and tugging her shirt into place. “That was... fun,” she says, her cheeks still flushed.
I feel one side of my face lift in a lopsided grin. “Indeed. Thanks for that.”
“I’d have died if anyone had caught me.”
“Ah, then it’d be even. I mean, you’ve caught people doing worse.”
“Yeah, but…” She looks away from the camera, embarrassed.
“Did it feel good?” I ask.
She looks back at the camera. “More than good.”
“And no one walked in. So we’re good, right?”
“We’re good,” she says. “But I do need to wash up and get back on the floor.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll, uh, text you tomorrow?”
“I’d like that,” she says. “Goodnight, Liam.”
“Goodnight.”
We hang up, and I sit for a long time, cock still gripped in my hand, just thinking about what just happened.
I hope I didn’t make things weird between us. I hope she really liked it.
When I finally clean myself and the room up, I’m dead tired, and even though my mind is spiraling into some weird, anxious space, I fall asleep easily.
Emma is the only thing on my mind.
15
EMMA
Laddie islike a tiny tornado in sneakers all morning, already dressed in his favorite dinosaur shirt and jeans, his little backpack stuffed and zipped.
He’s so excited he’s practically vibrating.
“Mama!” he yells from the kitchen. “Do you think Tristan’s mom will let us stay up all night this time?”
Before I can answer, Talia beats me to it. She’s leaning against the counter, sipping her smoothie, grinning like she’s watching her favorite sitcom.
“Only if Tristan’s mom is clinically insane,” she says.
Laddie gasps. “Aunt Talia! She’s not insane, she’sawesome!”
