He is. I hate that he is.
Emmett: I want to hear you.
My phone rings before I can respond, I nearly drop it out of surprise. His name flashes on the screen. This is insane. I should not answer this.
I answer it.
"Hi." My voice comes out breathless.
"Fuck." His voice is low. Rough. "You sound like that already?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're turned on."
I close my eyes. "Maybe I am." This is wrong but ...
"Are you touching yourself?"
"Not yet."
"Do it."
"I told you I don't take orders."
He laughs. Low and dark. "Then do it because you want to. Because you're wet and aching and you can't stop thinking about me."
"Maybe I'm thinking about someone else."
A deep guttural growl echoes through my phone. "You’d better not be thinking about someone else in this moment."
"I'm not," I reassure him. It was kind of hot that he got jealous. I've lost it. My hand slides beneath the waistband of my underwear. I gasp when my fingers find how wet I am.
"That's it," he breathes. "I heard that. You're touching yourself now, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"How wet are you?"
"So wet." I moan.
"Because of me?"
"Hmmm."
I hear rustling on his end, then a low groan. "I've had my hand on my cock since you told me what you were wearing."
The image hits me hard. Emmett in bed. His hand wrapped around himself. Thinking about me.
"Tell me what you're thinking about," he says.
"London."
"What about London?"
"Your mouth." My fingers circle my clit, and I bite back a moan.
"Where was my mouth?" He knows exactly where his mouth was. He's making me say it.
