“She hurt her ankle. Looked pretty bad, to be honest.”
“Where are they now?” I push harder on my eyeballs, turning my vision into a kaleidoscope of bright shapes.
“Oh. They. Right. They went to see the medic. They’re fine.”
I’m already moving. “Was it the skates? It was the fuckin’ skates, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” She laughs, the sound low and rough. I press the phone harder to my face. “Are you the one who said they’d put an eye out?”
“You mean the kill-joy who wants them to be careful for their own damn good? Yeah, that’s me.” When she laughs this time, my hand drops to my side and I just listen. Once she goes quiet, I ask, “They okay, though? I’m heading down there. You said they’re getting it looked at?”
“Yes. Lamé called. It’s a small sprain, according to the Doc. Nothing bad.”
Why, I wonder, didn’t Kris call me?
“Good. Maybe it’ll keep them off the skates in the damn shop.”
Another low chuckle flows through the phone, slow as molasses and twice as sweet. “I somehow doubt that.”
“Yeah.” We share a short silence. I look down and realize I’ve stopped walking. I’m just standing outside like a dick. “So, uh, you’re working the coffee shop?”
“Just to help out, I mean, I won’t take their tips or anything. It was crowded and—”
“We’ll pay you.” I look at the clock again. It’s edging close to lunchtime. “You been there long?”
“Couple hours.”
“Look. I’ll find you a replacement, okay? Or, better yet, I’ll come down there and help out.”
The ache in my back tells me this is a terrible idea, but I ignore it. I should definitely make sure everything’s okay. “Thanks again for helping. Seriously.”
“You’re welcome.” There it is again, that scratch in her voice, like low notes you can barely hear. All the little hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.
“You said your name’s Grace?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got to take care of a couple things up here, but I’ll be down there soon, okay? You mind holding tight?”
“Right. Yeah. Sure. Bye, um…Liev.”
I hang up, the sound of my name in that voice resonating straight to my prick.
Buzzing now, though my body’s heavy with exhaustion, I drag myself around to the side of the building, strip, and hose all the shit off before heading into the house where I run up and take a warm shower. Without meaning to, I’m palming my cock, thinking of last night and the taste of my mystery woman. Is it Grace? My exhausted brain’s layered that phone voice over all the smells and sounds and sights I’ve built in my head.
In my mind, she’s begging for more, deeper, harder. I’m so drained I have to lean against the tile wall, but my hand’s working fast, my arm tense with my very last dregs of strength, my fist somehow tight as a fucking vise, while my balls ache to spill on her, in her. Fill her up with my come. Christ, it’s been so long. I hardly remember how it feels to come raw inside a woman. That colossal mistake of a moment lit me up in places I forgot I had. I want to suck in her smell, bite her all over, mark her again with my teeth. Cover her in semen.
I think of Grace’s low laugh over the phone and put a face to her—it’s the shower woman. The phone, the shower, the Dungeon, last night. They’re all her. Strong arms, wide hips, long, taut waist, with the soft belly and the wiry pubic hair I want to bury my face in again. My mystery woman’s words come back to me, in that other voice, more immediate, more real, although surely the phone adds more distance than the dark.
“Please,”she begged as she came.“Please, please, please.”And“You’re my first”, I imagine Grace’s phone voice saying into my ear, embarrassed and shy and happy.“I want you.”
The memories are pure fuel, turning up the flame until I’m so close to coming I can taste it. I tighten my hand, twist high at the tip, stroke to the base. When I look down, my cock’s a dark, angry red, stiff and glossy, the slit beading with pre-cum. I overlay the black-haired woman onto what happened last night, her wide mouth open around me, her dark eyes tearing up. Another quick tug, another, and I’m there, the orgasm blasting through me, quick and hot. I blink without seeing the come splashing the tiles and my feet, getting washed away by water.
It takes me a solid minute to come back to reality and then another two minutes to towel off my hair—which needs a cut—and get dressed. I add at least another minute rooting around in the back of my dresser drawer to find a shirt that’s a little nicer than the rest. I mean, it’s a T-shirt, like the others, but without discernible holes. Blaming Zed, I throw that on and head down to the coffee shop.
* * *
Grace
