Page 298 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

‘Til my slit yawns open.

‘Til the heat hits his palm.

‘Til his fingers graze my clit.

And in the middle of the nights,

he murmurs baby against my throat

while sinking his fingers between my folds,

parting me open, soaking in it.

Doesn’t matter where we are:

“Fuuuck, baby…”

“Andrew…”

“I’ll do some real embarrassin’ shit you keep doin’ that grind thing.

“I’m serious. I’ll fuckin' blow in my work pants, baby—stop.”

“Andrew... stay. Right there.”

“Not lettin' go.”

“Andrew.”

“Nah... Not yet.”

“Andrew.”

“…Shh…”

“Andrew.”

“Fuckin' louder.”

“Andrew!”

“Fuck—you sound so fuckin’ good when I’m touchin’ you.”

Then he’s falling to his knees,

hitting the carpet,

the sticky bar tile,

the elevator’s herringbone hardwood,

the penthouse marble,

the city streets,

tongue skimming my split open seam,

slow, erotic strokes.