I stare at it for a moment, then hit accept.
Devon's face fills the screen. He's lying in bed, propped up on pillows, wearing a t-shirt that's riding up slightly to showa sliver of his stomach. His hair is messy, sticking up in all directions, making him look even cuter than usual.
"Hi," he says, grinning.
"Hi."
"Miss me?"
"Maybe."
"Just maybe?" He shifts slightly, and the camera angle changes, showing more of his torso. "That's disappointing."
I swallow, my grip tightening on the phone. "What are you doing, exactly?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" His free hand slowly slides down his chest, over his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his sweats. "I'm thinking about you. About that goal. About how fucking hot you looked."
I just stare, because this is turning into torture.
"About how I couldn't look away from the screen, imagining all those muscles moving under your uniform." His hand dips lower, palming himself through his sweats. "Got me all worked up."
Jesus Christ.
"You're—" I stop, not sure what I'm trying to say. My brain's offline, all blood diverted elsewhere.
"I'm what?" he teases, clearly enjoying my struggle. "Horny? Yeah. Your fault."
"How is it my fault?"
"You scored that goal. You looked hot doing it. Therefore: your fault." His logic is flawless and completely insane. "Now take off your shirt."
"What?"
"You heard me. Take off your shirt. I showed you mine." He tugs at his own shirt for emphasis. "Now show me yours."
Fair's fair, I guess.
I prop the phone up on the nightstand, angling it so he can see me, and pull my shirt over my head. The hotel room's cold against my skin, but I barely notice.
Devon makes this satisfied sound, low in his throat. "Much better. Now lie down."
"You're bossy, you know that?"
"You love it."
I do. I really fucking do.
I settle back against the pillows, phone in hand again, and Devon's eyes are roaming over what he can see of me on screen.
"You're so fucking hot," he breathes. His hand is moving over himself now, slow and deliberate through the fabric of his sweats. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
I let out a sharp exhale. "Tell me."
"I can't stop thinking about you. About your hands. Your mouth. Your cock." Shy this man is not. "About that night in your bed. About what I want to do next time."
"What do you want to do next time?"
"Everything." He grins, wicked and filthy. "But right now? Right now I want you to see what you do to me."
