Page 72 of Collide
“Oh?” His tone dips, silk laced with heat. “And what exactly were you thinking about?”
I hesitate, only to drag it out. I want to hear the shift in his breath when I say it.
“About how good your hands felt on me.”
A sharp inhale cracks through the line. That sound—tight, caught—hits me right between the ribs.
“Elena…” He says it like a warning. Or maybe a plea.
I wriggle under the covers, my skin too hot. My fingers trail over my ribs.
“I can still feel you,” I whisper. “The way you touched me. The way you pressed your hand right?—”
I feign a moan before biting my lip to stifle a giggle.
“Tell me,” he cuts in, rougher now. “What are you doing right now?”
I shift. “Lying in bed.”
“Are you wearing anything?” His voice drops, low and menacing.
“A tank top…No panties.”
He makes a sound—half curse, half groan. “You’re making this distance hard, aren’t you?”
I smile, my heart thudding against my ribs. “Do I makeyouhard, Alex?”
“Yes.” His voice is tense, like he’s saying it through gritted teeth.
“What would you do to me?” I tease, my voice sweet.
“What do you think I’d do?”
“I think you’d take your time.” I press my thighs together. “I think you’d make me beg for it.”
Another groan, longer this time. “Do you want me to make you beg for it?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“And what do you want?” His voice is low and breathy. I hear him shift, and wonder if he’s touching himself. The thought makes me ache.
My hand slips lower. My breath catches as my finger brushes along my entrance.
“I want your mouth.” I gasp as my finger grazes over my clit. “I want to feel you everywhere. I want you to ruin me.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. His voice shifts—darker now, hungrier. “Touch yourself, Darling. Imagine it’s me.”
“I already am.” I press harder, spreading my wetness in slow, gentle strokes.
“Fuck, Elena,” he groans. “That virgin pussy will feel so tight around my cock.”
I nearly come from just his words, his breath ragged as we pleasure ourselves—matching each other, word for word, moan for moan—until the night blurs, the room spins, and we finally let go.
Sleep finds me with his name still on my lips.
The room is too bright—blindinglyso. My head pounds like a relentless drumbeat, every throb a cruel reminder of last night’s indulgence. My mouth is dry, my limbs heavy.
Where am I?
