Oh?
“Are you rubbing your clit?”
“Yes.”
“Do it faster.”
A low moan comes through the phone. It’s not the sound of her orgasm, but it is pleasure.
“Slow down now, but go harder, press deeper.”
“Oohh.”
“Do you wish that was my finger? Or do you wish that was my tongue?”
“I…” She says nothing further.
“Baby, do you wish it was my tongue between your legs, sucking your hot, swollen clit between my lips?”
“Yesss.” That one is stretched out into a sound that nearly has me coming.
“Tomorrow night. I’ll eat you until you’re limp, okay? Tonight, you need to stroke that little pearl faster and harder. I want to come to the sound of your orgasm.”
“Are you…” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Touching yourself?”
I jerk and strain and realize too late that my shoulder’s going to scream, and not with pleasure, when I come. “Oh yeah. I wish you were here. My dick wishes it could play deep in your greedy, wet pussy. I’m close. Are you close?”
“Yeah, I just need a few more—” I hear it now. The hitch, the pause, the whimper. “Ohh.”
I need three more strokes. They’re tight and quick, and I release with a groan, “Lorien.”
I’m sticky and panting and wait for her to come down from that high.
But I notice…
I notice she doesn’t cry out for me.
I notice that she doesn’t say my name.
48
contradiction with an ass
Lorien
Monday is wild and goes by too fast. Before I know it, the pilot announces that we’re beginning our initial descent into Denver and to expect a few bumps along the way. I don’t fly much, but it seems there are always a few bumps. It must be the physics of the downslope off the mountains and into the plains that does it, but I’m no meteorologist or physicist.
After all the rigamarole of deplaning, detraining, and finding the exit, I’m relieved to see the huge black SUV pulling up.
Liam exits the vehicle, opens my door for me, turning my face this way and that in his warm hands as his jaw goes tight. He says nothing as his eyes linger on the bruises on my face. Eventually he takes my bag to the back before sliding behind the driver’s seat.
We’re out of the tunnel and heading toward Blucifer when I ask, “Were you limping just now?”
Staring straight out the windshield, he nods once, and adds apropos of nothing, “Gunshot to the hip.”
“What?” I shriek, my voice going high-pitched and painful.
“One to the hip, one to the shoulder. I told you it was a day.”
