There’s a beat of silence. Then another message lights up the screen.
WhiskeyAndInk: Touch yourself. But don’t come. Not until I say.
God. Why does that make my thighs press together like I’ve been wired to obey him? I pop my button and slide my hand beneath the waistband of my jeans, fingers skimming the curve of my stomach as I type one-handed.
Me: That bossy thing really does it for me, Coach.
WhiskeyAndInk: You think I don’t know that? You lit up when I told you to get on my bed. And you fucking glowed when I held your wrists down and told you to take it.
My hand wraps around my cock, already hard, already leaking, like he’s here in the room with me. As if I can still feel his breath against my ear when he growled that first command.
Me: Keep texting. Tell me what you’d do if you were here.
WhiskeyAndInk: I’d lay you out on the bed. Tie your hands above your head with your own shirt.
Take my time kissing every inch of you…but never where you want it.
Fuck. I squeeze harder, thighs twitching.
WhiskeyAndInk: I’d get you so hard and desperate, you’d start grinding up into my hand.
Whining.
Begging.
And I still wouldn’t let you come.
Me: You’re evil.
WhiskeyAndInk: You love it, hermoso. You want to know what I’d do next?
Me: Please.
WhiskeyAndInk: I’d lick into your ass until your legs shake. Hold you open. Fill you with my fingers and tongue while I watch you fall apart, still not letting you come. Not until you scream my name.
My hips jerk. I’m too close already, panting, staring at the screen like it’s gospel.
Me: Fuck, Silas. I’m gonna?—
WhiskeyAndInk: No. You don’t get to come until I say. Take your hand off your cock. Now.
I whimper. Actually fuckingwhimper. And I do it. I let go, writhing in the sheets, the ache unbearable, sharp, addictive.
WhiskeyAndInk: Send me proof.
I drag my shirt up my abs and push my jeans down just enough to allow my cock free range and take a quick picture, sending it to him. I’m leaking and harder than I’ve been in a week, since the last time he was inside of me actually. My legs are shaking with the need to come, and my balls are so tight and achy I don’t think I’m going to make it.
WhiskeyAndInk: Good boy.
My whole body lights up like fireworks. My lip is between my teeth, eyes fluttering, sweat building at my brow.
WhiskeyAndInk: You wait for me. Next time you come, it’ll be with me buried inside you, holding you down, making you mine.
Me: Yes, Sir.
WhiskeyAndInk: Jesus, Luke.
Just two words. But I feel them like a palm around my throat. I whine—actuallywhine—arching off the bed, my cock twitching where it’s pressed against nothing, throbbing with need.
