When the phone rings, my heart rate spikes to marathon levels despite my horizontal position.
"Can't sleep," he says instead of hello, and his voice is rougher tonight. Exhausted, maybe. Or drunk. Or both.
"Same," I admit, though my insomnia is 90% anticipation, 10% the Mountain Dew I mainlined at midnight, and 100% guilt about what I'm about to do while my brother—who dropped out of college to raise me—sits guard in my living room.
"What are you wearing?"
I laugh, but it's got an edge. "Really? That's your opening?"
"I've been thinking about it all day."
"Thinking about what I'm wearing?"
"Thinking about taking it off you."
My thighs clench involuntarily. This man and his voice are going to be listed as cause of death on my autopsy report, right under "gross familial betrayal" and "terminal poor judgment."
"Old t-shirt," I tell him, keeping my voice low. "Underwear that's seen better days. Very sexy."
"What color?"
"The shirt or the underwear?"
"Both."
"Gray shirt from a 5K I never actually ran. Black underwear that's mostly held together by hope and denial."
He groans, this low sound that goes straight to my core, completely bypassing the part of my brain screaming about loyalty and blood bonds and the fact that Miguel has killed people for less than what I'm about to do.
"Take them off."
"That's presumptuous."
"Angel. Take them off."
It's not the command that does it—it's the way his voice breaks a little on "angel," like he needs this as much as I do. My rational brain (remember her? She used to make good choices before Miguel started wearing Coyote colors) is screaming about stranger danger and family loyalty. My hands are already pulling off my shirt.
"They're off," I whisper, quiet enough that Miguel won't hear from the living room.
"Good girl."
Two words. Two fucking words and I'm soaking wet, my body committing treason at the cellular level.
"Don't—" I start.
"Don't what? Don't tell you how good you are? Don't tell you how perfect you sound when you're desperate?"
"Diablo—"
"Touch yourself. I want to hear you."
This is insane. I'm a medical professional. I save lives. I have certifications and continuing education credits and a brother who joined a motorcycle club to keep me safe. I should not be spreading my legs for a stranger's voice while said brother maintains his weapons thirty feet away.
My fingers find my clit anyway.
"Tell me," he says. "Tell me what you're doing."
"Touching myself," I breathe, circling slowly, keeping my voice barely above a whisper. "Thinking about your hands instead of mine."
