Page 43 of Undisputed Chaos
She told me about her day-painting, coffee with her mom, her brother's soccer games, and I hung on every syllable, every laugh, every time she said my name.
I memorized it all: the way her pitch rose when she talked about her hobbies, the soft click of her throat when she swallowed, the hitch when I called her "good girl."
My hand drifted to my thigh, tracing idle patterns that grew increasingly closer to where I’ve been violently straining against my sweats.
“You’re quiet,” she said suddenly.
“Just listening.”
I dragged the knife’s tip along my thigh, the pressure just shy of breaking skin. The danger of it made my cock twitch. “Your voice does things to me, Isla.”
A sharp inhale. “What… things?”
There it was. The crack in her composure I'd been waiting for.
I closed my eyes, imagining her curled on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, that pretty sundress riding up her thighs, showing the soft flesh I'd glimpsed when she'd painted on her balcony.
"Tell me what you're wearing."
“Adrian—”
“C’mon, angel. Humor me.” I let the edge slip into my voice—not a request, not quite a command.
A shaky exhale. “A… a tank top and shorts. Why?”
Fuck. My cock jerked, straining against fabric.
“Color?”
“Pink. The tank top, I mean. With little daisies.” Her voice grew shy. "And shorts."
I groaned, giving myself a slow, firm stroke through the material. The image of her in something soft and innocent was almost too much.
"I bet you look sweet enough to eat, angel. All soft and pretty in your little flowers."
"Adrian!" Her gasp was half scandalized, half excited, and I grinned at the ceiling, imagining her blushing.
“What? I’m an artist too. I appreciate the aesthetics.” I lightened my voice and shifted, the fabric straining against my erection as I traced my length with the knife.
"Though I'd rather pluck your petals myself."
Silence. Then, so quiet I almost missed it.
“Me too.”
The words punched through me, hot and vicious. My grip tightened around my shaft, still through the fabric, squeezing just hard enough to make my breath hitch.
"Yeah? What else do you want, Isla?"
A whimper. “I don’t… I shouldn’t?—”
"Tell me." I dropped my voice, letting it roughen as I slipped my hand beneath my waistband, wrapping my fingers around my bare cock.
"Or I'll guess. And Isla, I’ve got a very vivid imagination."
Her breath quickened, shallow and sweet. “I… I think about your hands. From the club. How they felt on me.”
“Where?”
