I can figure out how to give one woman what she needs.
A harsh laugh breaks from my chest. It echoes against the glass as the rain pelts the windshield. My pulse steadies and I feel the first flicker of control again.
I’m not letting Jasmine go.
I hit the ignition. The dash glows blue. The vents groan to life and blast hot air over my soaked chest and arms. I shift to reach for my overnight bag in the backseat when the car stereo kicks on.
A husky voice floods the dark cabin, low and familiar.
“What else do you need, Mr. Gray?” a woman purrs, syrupy-sweet.
“You. On your knees,” a rough male voice answers. “I need you to suck my cock.”
“Oh, Mr. Gray,” she breathes, barely containing a moan. “I was hoping I’d get a load of you today.”
I go absolutely still.
My cock jerks so hard against my zipper it’s painful. I blink, trying to orient myself in the darkness of the car, but everything narrows to that voice.
My skin prickles with the kind of awareness I’ve only ever felt around... Jasmine.
No fucking way.
The voice is huskier than hers. A little breathier. But the employer’s name is Mr. Gray.
Mr. Gray…
I pause the track and look around, heart thudding. There’s something wedged under the passenger seat. I reach down and pull out a slim phone in a mint-green case.
Jasmine’s.
She uses this car to run errands, to bring Sophie to her appointments. And apparently, to listen to filthy audio stories.
My little bird listens to dirty stories. Even though she’s never been kissed.
I glance at the screen. It’s still lit, the audio app open. A file name stares back at me—Boss-Housekeeper Jazz Draft 1.
Curiosity—no, compulsion—takes over. I hit play again.
“Good girl,” the man groans. “Already better than the last time. Keep sucking. Don’t stop.”
Jesus Christ.
The woman moans low and desperate, sucking and slurping like her life depends on it, and the man’s praising her, telling her that her pretty mouth was built to serve him.
My cock is fucking throbbing.
I pause the audio, breath ragged.
It’s her.
It’s my little bird narrating these filthy little stories.
My body knows. My cock knows.
That voice—hungry and breathless and dirty as sin—that’s Jasmine. She sounds good here, but it’s nothing like the way she sounded for me.
With me, she was real. Needier. Raw. Every moan soaked in honesty and desperation, clamping around my cock like a vise, even without me inside her.
