A low sound came through the phone. It went straight through me.
“Keep your hand there,” he said. “Stroke your cock a little firmer.”
I did.
Pleasure built in layers. My fist sliding wet over my cock. My fingertip circling the tight ring of muscle. Declan breathing harder now, losing pieces of that perfect control because of me, because of us, because we were both lying in separate beds touching ourselves to the same secret.
“Are you thinking about my fingers?” he asked.
My hips jerked. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m thinking about your fingers.”
“Where?”
I bit back a groan. “There.”
“Use the word.”
Heat flooded my face even alone in the dark. “On my hole.”
“Good. Keep touching. Imagine me taking my time. Getting you used to it. Not forcing. Not rushing. Making you open because you trust me enough to let go.”
My hand faltered.
Emotion cut straight through the lust, sudden and sharp.
“Jace?”
“I’m here.”
“Too much?”
“No.” I swallowed. “That was... keep talking.”
He went quiet for one breath, maybe two.
Then his voice came back, lower. “I’d make you ask for every inch. Not because I need you helpless. Because I want you present. I want to hear when it changes from fear to want. I want to know the second your body understands it can take pleasure there.”
My cock pulsed hard.
I stroked faster without permission.
“Slow down,” he said immediately.
I groaned. “Please.”
“Not yet.”
“I’m close.”
“I know. Hold it.”
My body shook with the effort. My finger pressed firmer against myself, not inside, just pressure, and that alone nearly tipped me over. I heard Declan curse softly, the word broken around a breath.
“You close?” I asked.
