“Well, firstly there’s nobody here to give me sass all day,” he says, and I roll my eyes. He laughs. “I missed having dinner with you tonight.” He turns and takes a whiff of the hotel pillow. “And these sheets don’t smell like you.”
I grab a pillow off the bed, bringing it to my nose. “Yeah, the smell of your pillow is what got me through last night,” I confess, feeling a little embarrassed.
Lincoln clears his throat. “Do you…do you miss me, too?”
The pink on his cheeks deepens. He’s blushing. He’s definitely blushing.
“I do,” I murmur my confession, wondering what the hell we’re doing. We’ve so veered off-track of our marriage contract by now.
“Show me how much,” he demands, his voice gravelly and low. “Show me how much you miss me, Troublemaker.”
“How…?” I breathe out, feeling heat rush between my legs. I squeeze them together.
I can see the way Lincoln’s chest widens on each steady inhale. The way his chest contracts when he exhales. He’s getting as worked up as I am. “Touch yourself for me.”
I feel my body flush all over as the tension between us mounts. “Tell me what to do…” I whisper. I swallow. “Will you talk me through it?”
“Hell yeah, baby. I want that.”
I hear myself whimper as my stomach starts to tingle.
His voice is pure velvet and gravel when he asks, “Are you wet, Jules?”
I squirm against the mattress, feeling the slick slide of my pussy lips rubbing together. I nod, knowing my voice will crack if I dare to open my mouth.
“Let me see,” Lincoln commands, his words rumbling dangerously low.
Inching my legs apart, I set a pillow in the space between my knees. Then, I lean my phone against it, offering him a view of my most private area. Lincoln releases a choked groan when I hook a finger into the crotch of my panties and slowly tug the fabric aside.
My wet, engorged pussy appears on the tiny self-view screen of my phone. Trimmed, dark curls and all.
My embarrassment nearly takes over and causes me to slam my legs shut. But when I see Lincoln’s eyelids grow heavy with lust, my confidence renews exponentially.
“Spread, baby.” The soft command rumbles across the line.
Using my fingers, I gently separate my folds, showing him the most intimate part of me. Pink and swollen and dripping.
“You are hands-down the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he growls, as his own hand slides down his chest and disappears off-screen.
“If you’re touching yourself, too, I want to see,” I demand.
A little grin dances across his face. “Your wish. My command.”
After a bit of fumbling and adjusting, my husband is fully naked and his camera is angled to give me a front-row seat to all that male perfection. The shoulders I love to nuzzle against. The biceps that fit so well around me. The abs I want to scale like a rock-climbing wall.
When he makes a tight fist around those nine inches—and a quarter—another wave of heat passes through me. I moan out loud.
Shit. I know the rules. I need to be quiet. Because of Cameron.
I purse my lips together.
“Damn. I wish I could hear you make that sound again. While you’re rubbing your clit,” Lincoln requests.
I follow his instructions. But I slam my forearm over my mouth as another needy sound tries to escape me. My eyes flutter open and close as I watch him jerking himself with increasingly rough strokes on my phone screen.
“Rub it. Back and forth, gorgeous. Nice and slow. That’s it, Jules. Look at you. So beautiful. So fucking perfect,” he encourages me. “Look how wet you are. Do you have any idea what I’m going to do to you when I get home?”
“Oh my god, Lincoln,” is my response. “Tell me.”
