I type with shaking fingers.
Me: Please. I can’t wait.
WhiskeyAndInk: You want to comethat badly?
I nod before I remember he can’t see me.
Me: Yes, Sir. I’ve been good.
WhiskeyAndInk: You’ve been perfect, baby. But I’m not done with you yet.
Fuck.
I press my thighs together, needing to grind into the sheets for friction like a desperate thing. My whole body is on fire, skin flushed, and trembling.
WhiskeyAndInk: Rub your cock on the sheets. Slow. Small movements. Nothing more.
But Facetime me, I want to hear and see how wrecked you are.
I drop the phone onto my bed as I shift onto my stomach and hit the Facetime icon, obeying instantly, dragging my hips forward just enough to feel the drag of the fabric. My mouth falls open.
A moan slips out—raw, needy, and completely shameless.
“Fuck,” I pant, “Coach?—”
“That’s it. Let me hear you. Just like that.”
I can’t think or breathe. All I can do is move, slow and aching, the pleasure sparking at the base of my spine.
“Don’t come until I say. You understand?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m yours.”
There’s a pause long enough that I glance at my screen to see his face. He looks like he wasn’t ready for that. His eyes are dark, and I hold his stare.
“You’re mine. Say it again,” he demands, his voice sending a shockwave of need through me.
“I’m yours. Please, Sir, I’m yours.”
There’s silence on the line.
Thick. Electric.
His jaw flexes on the screen. I see the tension in his neck, the way his hand moves just slightly below the camera, rhythm barely controlled.
“You don’t know what that does to me,” he mutters, low and dark. “Hearing you say that.”
My hips roll again, and I can’t stop the moan that tears out of me. It’s too much—his voice, the weight of his attention.
“You still leaking for me,hermoso?” His voice is low. Rough. Commanding.
“Yes, Sir,” I breathe.
“Good. Flip over.”
I blink. “What?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
