We found our rhythm fast. He called every night without me having to ask. Sometimes I’d fall asleep with him still talking, his voice low and easy carrying me under, and I’d wake up at 3am with the call still open and his breathing on the other end slow and even.
• • •
I never hung up. I just lay there in the dark listening to him sleep.
I know. I know how that sounds.
One night in October — late, both of us in bed, screens the only light — I’m lying on my stomach watching him lie on his back and he’s not quite looking at the camera, just talking, easy and unhurried, and there’s something about the angle.
The low light catching the line of his jaw. The way his voice goes lower when he’s tired.
He’s sprawled across his twin XL, hair mussed, eyes lazy and hungry.
“Hey,” he says, that rough edge I know too well in his voice already.
“Hey yourself.”
He looks at me for a long moment, that look he gets, the one that makes my skin too tight.
“Ro—” He says my name like it’s a secret. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” He’s got both hands in his hair, and for a second, I wish they were on me instead.
I watch as his hand drifts down, camera following.
“Show me,” I say, voice barely steady.
He doesn’t hesitate. His shirt’s already off—he’s always been impatient. He gives me a look, slow and deliberate, lips parted just a little, waiting for my reaction. “You really want this?” he asks, low, voice catching.
“Yeah. Touch yourself. I want to watch.”
He grins, just a little crooked.
“Fuck, okay. You first.”
It’s not a question. I set the phone down, angling it so he can see everything, and pull my shirt off, stripping down until there’s nothing between us but hundreds of miles and a shitty camera lens. He’s watching, hungry, his hand already wrapped around himself, slow and teasing.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, voice uneven, eyes roaming every inch of exposed skin.
“Tell me.”
He bites his lip, palm working down the length of his cock, slow, deliberate. “Been thinking about your mouth. The way you look right before you come. Wish I could hear you beg.”
I slide my hand down, matching his rhythm, letting my head fall back with a soft groan.
“You’re gonna have to settle for this.”
His breath catches. “Ro—fuck, keep going. Please. Touch yourself the way I would. Show me.”
I do. I show him exactly what he does to me, every filthy thought I’ve had since the last time we touched, every broken moan.
"Look at me," I demand.
"Don't close your eyes. Look at me."
He’s losing it—can’t keep that mask on for me, not at all.
His hips jerk, his hand moving faster, his eyes locked on mine through the screen.
I moan for him, let the camera catch every second. He’s watching, breath coming sharp.
