Page 97 of Bleacher Report
“Please.”
"That’s what I want to hear. Good girl… Now push me in. All the way. Let me hear you."
A soft moan escapes my lips as I sink it inside, the stretch surprisingly familiar.
"Holy shit," I breathe. "You weren’t kidding. This thing’s...accurate."
"Now you’re just stroking my ego," he rasps, but I can hear the strain in his voice. "How wet are you?"
"Soaked."
"Good. Work that little body until you can’t think straight."
His voice guides me, patient but filthy, every word fanning the fire building in my core. I move with his instructions, chasing the high he’s painting for me with nothing but his voice.
And when I finally come—I cry out—his name is the only thing on my lips.
After a beat, all I can hear is my shaky breath and the subtle crackle of the airport overhead speaker through the phone.
Hunter makes a rough exhale.
"Goddamn, I’m hard as a rock and have nowhere to go."
"You started it," I whisper, chest rising and falling fast. "Next time, don’t leave your cock lying around."
A beat of laughter breaks through the phone line, and then his voice drops into that smile I can feel even across the country.
"That was your retaliation, wasn’t it?"
"Maybe."
"You’re evil."
"And you love it."
There’s another pause, and then I hear a flight being announced over the speaker.
"They're boarding my flight," he says reluctantly. "I’ll text you when I get to my hotel. Night, Peyton."
I should say something normal. Something casual.
But instead, I smile wickedly at the glittering turquoise cock in my hand, and say sweetly, "Does phone sex count against rule number one? Because that’s the best I’ve ever had."
There’s a rough inhale on the other end of the line. A muttered curse.
"Goddamn it," he growls. "I’m standing in line at my gate, and now I have to adjust myself in public."
Laughter bubbles up in my throat as I imagine him, flustered and hard, trying to casually shield himself from the families and businessmen waiting for boarding.
"Serves you right," I say, grinning.
We say our quick goodbyes and then the call cuts off, and I’m left alone with my racing heart and the obscene gift in my hand.
I stare at it for a long moment, fingers lightly tracing the smooth contours, my mind spinning faster than it should. This was supposed to be pretend. Clean. Professional.
And now? I’m in bed, clutching a dildo modeled after the man I swore I wouldn’t fall for.
The thing is...I don’t want the imposter.
