“That better?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
His voice dropped a little. “Where are your hands?”
The air changed.
My body knew before my brain caught up.
“On the blanket,” I said.
“Put one on your chest.”
I swallowed and obeyed.
“The other lower.”
My hand slid beneath the blanket, over my stomach. I was already getting hard, slow and heavy, not the frantic punch from the hotel, but a deep pull that made my thighs tense.
“Lower,” he said.
My fingers reached the waistband of my sweats.
“Color?”
“Green.”
“Push them down enough to touch yourself.”
I did, hips lifting in the dark. My cock was warm and thick in my hand. I wrapped my fingers around it and let out a breath I hadn’t meant to make.
Declan heard.
“Slow,” he said. “Don’t rush to the part where you stop feeling.”
That hit somewhere under the arousal.
I stroked once, slow enough that my stomach tightened. “Are you...”
“Yes.”
The word was rougher than before.
A picture formed before I could stop it. Declan in his bed or maybe on his couch, sweats pushed down, big hand around himself, phone near his mouth, voice controlled while his body wasn’t completely.
“Tell me,” I said before embarrassment could stop me.
His breath changed. “I’m in bed. Lights off. Tiny is snoring on the floor like he pays the mortgage.”
I laughed softly, then gasped when my thumb dragged over the head of my cock.
“Keep going,” he said.
I did.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Stroking myself. Slow. Thinking about your mouth when you try not to beg.”
