And I try to learn all the lines and planes that make up his body, so that when this whole experiment is over, I’ll still have this—the memories of when Nico Tremblay gazed upon me likeIwas the piece of art.
“Tell me, Jo, do you ache like I do?”
“Y-yes.”
“Can I help soothe it?”
“Please.”
“Then let me hear you say it.”
I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry, and Nico’s eyes track the movement, his pupils dilating. He’s intimidating when he’s like this, quiet and almost catlike, ready to pounce. He’s thousands of miles away, in another country, and yet with his quiet voice and gentle directions, it feels like he’s right next to me.
“Don’t be embarrassed. Not with me.”
I take a deep breath and tell him, “I want to come again. I want you to make me come, and I want…” My skin heats with embarrassment as I trail off, but Nico nods, mouthingKeep going, so I do. “I want you to come too. I want to know it’s good for you. That you…like what we do.”
The rumble in his throat is one of the dirtiest sounds I’ve ever heard, and his shoulder moves, his hand out of the picture, but I can imagine what he’s doing from the way color rises high on his cheeks and he exhales audibly. “I always like what we do, mama. I like spending time with you, whether it’s hanging out or cuddling or…this.” He juts his chin toward me, ordering, “Put the phone on the pillow next to you. Stand it up so I can see your face.”
I do, and it strikes me that he wants to look at my face and not my body. He wants to look at the part of me that makes me most self-conscious.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs when I lie back down, head on my pillow, inches away from my phone so it’s like we’re lying next to each other. “Now I want you to touch yourself. Close your eyes and pretend it’s me.”
I take a deep breath and try to relax, listen to his voice as I close my eyes and tug the hem of my T-shirt up, drawing the tips of my fingers over my stomach and up to my breasts when he says, “When I come home, I’m going to repeat exactly what we do tonight. So I want you to listen carefully, okay?”
When I nod, he lets out a whispered, “That’s it,” and then a low groan. “First, I’m going to play with your nipples, lick and kiss them until you’re moaning.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Run your fingers over them for me, make them tight little peaks, pinch a little.”
I do. I follow his instructions, keeping my eyes closed the whole time, picturing what his hand is doing on his end, his long fingers wrapped around his erection. The veins in his forearmstraining under his tanned skin, imagining his face might flush as his pleasure rises. I know mine does.
“I see you starting to wiggle.” Nico’s voice contains a trace of humor. “You getting excited? You ready to feel my fingers between your legs, making you nice and wet, playing with your clit? Go ahead, slip your hands in your pants. You’ve already got my face down there, might as well make my dreams come true.”
That earns a snort of amusement from me, but it’s cut off when he continues his direction. “I want you to use both hands. One to hold you open, the other to rub your clit.”
Doing what he says, I use the index and middle fingers of my left hand to reveal my already pulsing clit. Whenever I’ve masturbated before, it has never been like this. Never so fevered and eager.
Before, it was based on curiosity, mostly fumbling touches, but with Nico’s voice in my ear, I am desperate to get to the end, to find my release and go flying once again.
I stroke my clit once, my chest rising on a deep inhale, and Nico must see or hear it because he praises me, whispers more words about how well I’m doing, how he loves watching me, watching my face change with pleasure.
“You wet?” he asks, and I exhale harshly.
“Yes.”
“Push your finger inside. I want to know how wet.”
I slide the middle finger of my right hand down and into my slickness, a very slight intrusion, my body clenching for more.
“Look at you. Greedy girl. You using two? I can tell from how you’re squirming you must be.”
I bite into my lip, using the wetness to circle my clit until my neck arches.
“That’s it, mama. Just like that, do what feels good. You’re so fucking perfect when you touch yourself for me.”
His grated words, almost like he’s gritting his teeth, send a jolt through me. He’s enjoying this too. I told him I want to know that he likes what we do, and from his voice alone, I know he is.His breath is ragged, the sound of his hand moving over his skin faster.
