“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes,” I rasp out, hungry and desperate for more. “Yes. Please tell me.”
“Kissing you was the best thing I ever did. All I can think about is your lips, all I can imagine is fucking you. The way I’d have shoved you up against that wall, ripped your jeans down to the floor. Spit in your hand.”
“Wh-what?”
“Spit in your hand, August.”
I do exactly as he says.
“Take your cock with it.”
I let out a small and broken sound at the sensation.
“That’s my mouth, August. Can you feel me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to fuck my mouth?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck it. Fuck into me, just as hard as you like. Fuck me.”
A moan rips out of me, and I almost drop the phone, barely holding it to my shoulder with my cheek so I can grab my balls while I’m fucking into my fist like he told me.
“I can hear you, August. I can see you. Can you feel me watching you?”
“Oh, god.” His eyes, hard and unguarded, devouring every inch of me while I fuck myself for him, fuck his mouth, losemyself in his words and his body and his fantasies. His fantasies about me. Him wanting me like I want him. “Are you… Are you…”
“You’re going to make me come. Just by fucking my mouth, you’re going to make me come all over the floor.”
“Fuck, August…”
“I want to taste you. Fuck me harder. Harder, August, finish me. Fuck me.”
“Fuck!” A cry racks out of me, hot cum shooting between my fingers, bursts of it, more, more, shuddering pulses of bliss taking me, lifting me, ending me. August and August and nothing but August, drenching me, adoring me, holding me.
I open my eyes, find them in the mirror, then hear the grunt that slips from him, crackling down the line, driving a final burst of ecstasy through my core, through every inch of me.
He came. I made him come. By fucking myself.
Did I make him come by fucking myself?
I’m losing it. I’m obsessed with this man.
I swipe some tissues from the bedside table then curl into a ball, turning away from the mirror, listening hard for him. His breath is heavy, like mine, then his gravely voice. “August…”
“I like you so much,” I whisper.
His laugh, tired, spent, gorgeous. I wish so badly he were here. To kiss him, to sink into him. “I like you too. But I think you know that.”
“I do now.” We both chuckle, and in lieu of saying goodnight straight away, even if it’s past three a.m., I ask, “Was there a reason you were calling? I feel like you were going to say something when I… slightly stopped you.”
Silence, all except for his hand on the receiver, then, “I like your way of doing things better.”
“Was it… a maths thing?”
