Page 8 of Dirty Love

“At home. Spread your legs.”

“I’m not wearing a thong,” I tease. I’m not wearing anything, and I know he can see that when I slide my legs apart.

“Dirty girl.”

“Always.”

“Don’t steal my lines. What were you doing before you called?”

Eight months ago, I’d have been having sex with half of my crew. Tonight, and every night since Wilson claimed me, I just watched the usual debauchery that spilled out after a show. “There was the usual thing. I’m surprised you don’t know.”

“I was busy.”

It’s nearly three in the morning on the east coast. “Fights went late?”

“I had a thing after that. Touch yourself. I want to see your fingers slide inside.”

I stroke myself, the outer lips first, then where I’m wet already. I lift my hips and give in to the memory of his fingers spearing into me. Roughly, before I’m ready, because I goaded him into it.

“Slow down,” he says in my ear, and I make a face that makes him laugh. “Put me on speaker so you can use both hands.”

“I like having your voice right in my ear.” To prove my point, I show him I only need one hand. I’m a masturbating ninja.

“Keep saying nice things to me and I’m going to think you want another visit.”

“Want and can handle are two different things.” I pull my hand from between my legs and give him my middle finger. “Your voice makes me wet, nothing else. I like it for depraved reasons.”

“You want a bedtime story?”

I lick my finger and drag it back down my body, tugging at my tank top as I go. “Please.”

“Once upon a time, there was a man who flew to a city of angels in search of answers.”

Oh, that’s a dirty trick, going with this story. My throat tightens even as the rest of my body goes soft and pliant for him.

Wilson holds the pause just long enough to make me ache. “He found a dark, dirty siren instead. She tempted him, and he fell hopelessly in lust with her.”

The feeling had been completely mutual, the bastard. He’d twisted me inside out with a single look.

“But she lived in a tall tower, guarded by an ugly troll, and there was no way for him to get up, nor her to get down. So he found a way to send her messages instead. Dirty stories of all the filthy things he wanted to do to her. To her mouth. Her pussy. Her ass.”

“Yes,” I breathe. “Are you jerking yourself off?”

“Hush. Listen to your story. So one night, he found a way to talk to her. To tell her how much he wanted to taste her. To bury his face between her legs and lick her until she squirmed. And as he talked to her, she touched herself. She told him how soft and wet and perfect she was for him, and only him.”

“I am. And only for you,” I whisper. He really has made me a romantic in my own way.

I’m totally going to break his heart. The tightness in my throat moves into my chest. Whatever. My heart is already broken.

“Lemme hear you come,” he says, his voice fading into a groan. I picture him squeezing his cock, tugging faster around the head, then backing off again. Edging himself because torture is all we’ve got.

Fuck. My entire torso’s consumed with that heat now, the uncomfortable claiming, and I writhe, against it and toward it. My head thrashes away from the phone, and his voice is distant for a second, but then I twist back.

“Fill yourself up. Fuck yourself and imagine it’s me.” Rough, harsh commands. I close my eyes and my lips part. I can feel his fingers inside me, then wet against my thighs. My belly. His hand on my neck, a squeeze to make me gasp. Then he’d thrust his cock into me and I’d cry out. He’d silence me with his fingers, slick with the taste of me, and I’d suck on him because I’m a dirty fallen angel.

All for him, now.

How my life has changed.

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