“Of course they are,” she scoffs. “Are they frilly?”
“No,” I say with a soft laugh until I remember they were that night, in my car. I wonder if Pia thinks about that night as much as I do. “They’re lace.”
“Oh.” Pia’s tone changes, deepens. “So can you see your pussy through them?”
I don’t look down, but I do stroke my labia through the lace. It feels so good. Too good. And that makes me feel brave. “Yes, you can. The hair is growing back.”
“Fuck,” Pia grits out, and she says something else, but it’s swallowed by more muffled rustling. “And your bra? What colour is that?”
“Cream. It’s satin. Not see-through. I needed support on my walk.”
Pia’s laughter is gentle and ends in a sigh that I swear is more moan than anything else.
“I miss your tits,” she says.
I miss you, I want to say. It’s right there on the tip of my tongue.
“Touch them for me,” Pia says. “Play with your nipples.”
I slide my free hand into my bra and do as she asks. I’m not surprised when my nipple is already hard and so very sensitive.
“Oh, Pia,” I hum out, a shot of desire charging through me from my breast to my core.
“You wish it was me, don’t you?” she prompts. “You wish it was my hand. My mouth.”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes, I do.”
“Play with the other one,” she says.
“Where are you, Pia? What are you doing?”
“I’m also in bed, English rose. And I’ve had two fingers in my cunt since I first heard your voice.”
“Oh,” I say, breathless.
“Suck on two of your fingers,” she tells me. I do it immediately, surprised by how good it feels to have my mouth full. “And then put them in your lacy white knickers.”
I should hate her teasing me like this, teetering on the edge of humiliating me. But I don’t. In fact, I crave more of it.
I moan loudly when my wet fingers brush against the tip of my clit.
“Does that feel good, Cassie?” she says. I’m stunned for a split-second at hearing my name roll out of her mouth so easily, so perfectly, but then I move my fingers, stroking my clit.
“God, yes,” I say. “It feels so good.”
“Are you wet?”
“Yes,” I say. It’s the truth. I’m obscenely wet.
“Taste yourself,” she orders.
Some buried part of me tries to be shocked, but the rest of me, the core of me that is pulled as tight as stretched elastic with desire, silences her immediately. I put my fingers in my mouth.
“And?” Pia prompts, sounding even more impatient than usual, which is something. “What do you taste like?”
“Salty. Sweet. But not as sweet as you,” I tell her.
She grunts out something in Swedish, and then there’s more rustling. “Fingers back in your knickers.”
