I moan and close my eyes to focus on the intensity and escalation of the moment.
“Oh Jane, I miss you… what you do to me.”
The sight of him unraveling—jaw tight, eyes burning, his big cock in his hand, head glistening with precum, thatmagnificent composure finally teetering—pushes me over.
I come with his name in my mouth and my hand between my legs and his face on my screen—not perfectly timed, not choreographed, just the real breathless actual thing. My back arches off the chair, thighs shaking, a cry I couldn't swallow if I tried ripping from my throat. The pleasure hits in waves—cresting, breaking, drowning me.
On screen, through the blur, I see his hand move faster—jaw clenched, eyes burning—
"Jane—"
He follows. A groan that sounds like it's torn from somewhere deep and vital. His head drops back. His hand slows. His chest heaves.
Silence.
Both of us on screen. Breathing hard.
Neither of us speaks for a long moment. The kind of quiet that isn't empty—that's full of everything we just did and everything it means that we chose to do it from two hundred miles apart.
The apartment central heater turns on suddenly. My heartbeat pulses in my ears. The screen glows between us.
"Hi," he says finally. Quiet.
"Hi."
He doesn't hang up. I don't either.
"I miss you so much."
No caveat. No qualification. Just the fact, sitting in the space between Boston and New York like a stone dropped in still water.
I don't answer immediately. The answer is right there—enormous and terrifying and absolutely not something I can say on a Friday night in my Boston bedroom while my heart is still hammering and my hand is still damp.
"I know."
He accepts that fully.
"Hang up," he says.
"You hang up."
"Jane."
"West."
I hang up first. Press my face into my pillow. Then into his T-shirt, which still smells like clean linen and woodsmoke and the specific chemical composition of a man who is ruining my life from another state.
This is a prolonged chemical reaction to distance and his voice and the specific way he says my name and I will be completely fine when this wears off.
He has such a good voice.
Fresh from the shower, I hop into bed and pull up Netflix like a woman with absolutely nothing to confess.
Nothing to unpack. Nothing to reflect on. Certainly nothing to replay in high definition.
I have been sitting there approximately four minutes when Grace’s voice cuts through the apartment.
“JANE. JANE—OH MY—”
