Page 37 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

“It’s already happening,” I say. “You’re already there.”

Seven snorts. Even now she’s annoyed, but she’s coming apart all the same. She seems to dislike me, yet she can’t stop herself from obeying me.

This blend of dislike and obedience and heat is the most erotic combination I’ve ever experienced.

I’ve never ripped off a woman’s clothes—it feels irrational—but when I’m talking to Operator Seven, rational and irrational are out the window.

“Such a freak,” she rasps again.

“Whatever you need,” I say. She has to be close; I can feel her leveling up right through the phone. God, it’s hot.

“I love how you think the whole world revolves around you,” she says.

I slide my hand over the cool steel of my kitchen island. Dim lights illuminate the subway tile above the sink, all neat lines and crisp corners. “Me, too. I love how it revolves around me, too,” I say.

An annoyed gust of breath. Angry and turned on.

She’s not the only one. This anonymous girl has me hard as rock, but I won’t jack off. I want to concentrate on her. I’d do anything for her right now.

“Are you almost there?” I growl. “I need to hear you come. I know you’re close.”

Her breath rasps in and out. Soft and sweet.

“You’re almost there,” I say softly, coaxingly. I’m losing sight of my goals and questions, and for once I don’t care. I ball my fists, wishing I could press my lips to her cheek and feel her raspy breath in my ear as she comes apart.

Where in the city is she? An office? A bedroom? A basement hovel? What does she see when she looks around? What’s out her window?

“You’re almost there, aren’t you? And you’re all mine.”

“Uh,” she breathes.

I need to hear her come. It’s an utterly senseless need. This woman who’s driving me crazy. This woman who fills my dreams, who looms large in my mind when I wake up in the middle of the night, I just need her to come. I need some control back, or maybe just to give her something.

“Do yourself, baby. You’re every inch mine right now,” I say. “I’ll take what I want, and it’ll be so good.”

I hear her suck in her breath. A short intake of air.

Then nothing. She stops breathing. It’s as if everything between us grinds to a halt.

“What?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “No, no, no, no.”

“What happened?” I ask, feverishly reviewing my words.You’re every inch mine. I’ll take what I want.Was it a terrible thing to say? We say whatever thing comes into our minds—isn’t that the agreement with phone sex?

“What happened…” she begins, “what happened…is that you’re awake.”

“No,” I say. “Wait—”

“The weather is cloudy. It’s a mild forty-two degrees at JFK.”

Click.

I stare down at the screen, blood racing.

Just like that, she’s gone.

And I feel bereft.

---