He angles the camera down, giving me a view of his whole body stretched out on his bed. His hand is still moving over the obvious bulge in his sweats, and I can see the outline of his cock, hard and straining against the fabric.
Then he slides his hand under the waistband.
I watch, completely transfixed, as his fingers wrap around what I know is his cock, and he starts stroking himself. I can't see it, but I can see the movement of his hand, the rhythm he's setting, the way his hips shift slightly.
"Fuck," I breathe.
"Your turn."
My hand moves to my jeans almost on instinct, popping the button, dragging down the zipper. I'm already half-hard, getting harder by the second, and when I palm myself through my boxers, Devon makes this desperate sound.
"That's it. Touch yourself. I want to watch."
I do, pressing my palm against my cock, feeling it swell and throb under my touch. It's nowhere near enough, but the anticipation is its own kind of pleasure.
"You're being shy," Devon says, and there's a taunt in his voice. "Don't be shy with me."
"I'm not—"
"You are. You're still dressed." He pulls his hand out of his sweats, and even though I can't see his cock yet, I notice how flushed he is, how his chest is rising and falling with quick breaths. "Come on, Ace. Show me."
Something about the way he says my name, rough and needy and commanding all at once, breaks whatever remaining hesitation I have.
I lift my hips and push my jeans and boxers down, freeing my cock. It springs up, hard and leaking, and Devon's eyes go wide.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "I forgot how big you are."
"You had it in your mouth three days ago."
"Really? Feels like longer." His hand disappears back into his sweats. "Take them off. All the way. I want to see all of you."
I do, awkwardly, trying to hold the phone steady while stripping. Once I'm naked, I settle back against the pillows, cock hard and flushed against my stomach.
Devon's staring, and the intensity of his gaze through the screen makes me feel exposed.
"Perfect," he says. "Now touch yourself. I want to watch you stroke that perfect cock."
I wrap my hand around myself, and the contact after all that anticipation makes me gasp. I stroke myself slowly, base to tip, feeling the weight of my cock in my palm, the way it throbs with my pulse.
"That's it," Devon breathes. "Just like that."
He shifts, and suddenly he's pulling his shirt off, then his sweats, and then he's naked too, his cock hard and flushed, curving slightly up toward his stomach, his hand wrapped around it, stroking in time with mine like we're connected somehow.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," I say, and I mean it. Every lean line of him, every muscle, every inch of skin I want to taste.
"Keep talking. I like your voice."
"What do you want me to say?"
"Tell me what you're thinking about."
I stroke myself again, slower this time, dragging it out. "I'm thinking about how you taste. How you sound when I make you feel good."
"Yeah?" His hand speeds up slightly. "What else?"
"About how I want to touch you. Make you fall apart. I want to—" I stop, the words catching in my throat.
"Want to what?"
