I picture it’s him under me. Tell myself the pressure against my sex is his own. Convince my brain that his hands are on my hips, grinding me against him. And that necklace he sometimes wears hits his chest every time he thrusts into me—a necklace that looks just like one I own.
So I ride him. I drag my pussy up and down the rolled-up towel, saturating the material of my panties. My breasts sway with every move, and I fucking love it—but nowhere near as much as I’d love the real thing.
My head tips back, and I sink my nails into the towel as I ridehim. A quiet moan builds in my throat that grows louder with the passing seconds. His name is a broken groan on my lips that ends in a muttered curse of frustration.
I need more.
I need him to fill me.
God, I just—fuck. Please.
Need coils low in my stomach, burning as hot as my sticky skin. I rip my sweatshirt off, but it hardly does enough to stop the sweat from building beneath my shirt. I’m panting. Muttering. Groaning. Needing thatedgeto get me to the finish line.
The chime of my phone renders me frozen. It’s not Mom’s special ringtone. I hesitate before grabbing it, hands trembling from the sudden wave of adrenaline. The device slips from my fingers, and because I’m generally incompetent, I answer it before meaning to.
And I guess I was mistaken. My guardian angels aren’t watching over me.
For the first time since Leo and I started talking, he’s calling me.
And I just.Fucking. Answered.
My body solidifies into stone, and I basically black out, unsure what to do. It takes far too long for me to realize I should bring the phone up to my ear.
“H—” I clear my throat, tasting ash. “Hey, Leo. I-is something wrong?”
Somethinghasto be wrong. Why else would he be calling me? Did he discover my real identity? Or find out I’ve been sneaking into his house? Has he called the cops on me?
Fuck. What if he wants to meet up?
I’m not good at thinking of something on the fly,especiallywhen I’m about two seconds away from screaming becauseLeo Duval is talking to me on the fucking phone.
Need I mention that I’m currently getting off on his cum towel? I feel that’s highly relevant to my inability to process what’s happening right now.
My breaths come out too hard to be normal, but I can’t do anything to stop it. The cardio I’ve been doing is only half the reason for it.
What if he decides he doesn’t like talking to me anymore? What if my voice is too nasally for him? Or I don’t talk in a tone he likes? I’ve done that to people before. Spoken to dudes on dating apps, and after I finally meet them face-to-face, I block them because they talk too slow or monotone, or they don’t have diverse sentences, so everything about them is predictable.
What if Leo thinks I’m like that? There’s no other way for me to get back in.
“You’re ignoring me. Why?”
This time, it’s the shock that has me frozen. Firstly, what is he talking about?
Secondly, dear fucking God. My core clenches at the sound of his voice. I’ve watched every video that’s publicly available, and he doesn’t sound likethatin a single one of them. Voice deep and gravelly, tipped with malice and irritation. In his interviews, he’s always subdued and professional.
Not now.
It’s the type of voice I’d imagine muttering in my ear as he takes me from behind.
Maybe I’m telling myself what I want to hear, but he soundsstrained. Is he...? Am I hearing things, or are his breaths as heavy as mine?
Without meaning to, my hips push down against the towel, and the pressure? Unreal.Thisis more like it.
I can almost believe that this is just like it was in his room, where we’re both touching ourselves in private.
Swallowing the thickness in my throat, I stutter the words out. “N-no, I’m not.”
I’m literally fucking him right now. Sort of. Not that he’d know about it. Would he approve? Honestly, he’s a man. So probably, yeah. Egotistical bastards. But I’m me, so maybe not.
