Page 50 of Wildflower
“Come for me, Alice. Come with me.”
The moans she lets out make me lose control, and as they build up and crescendo into a muffled scream, I come hard onto my stomach, stifling a loud roar into a groan.
“Oh my God,” she says in a muffled voice. I imagine her face pressed into a pillow, maybe a sheen of sweat on her forehead when she turns back around. Her hair messy from thrashing around.
“You make the sexiest sounds,” I say.
“I do? Oh gosh, now I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. You’re intensely hot.”
“Can I tell you something?” she asks, her tone elevated.
“Please do.” I smile into the phone as I get up to wipe myself down.
“Having your voice in my ear like that really did it for me. This was the most powerful orgasm I’ve had.”
“You mean by your own hand?”
“No, ever. I’ve never had this intensity with anyone.”
In a weird way, this makes me feel special. Fuck, the things I could do to her to blow her mind … if I could get my hands on her. “Oh,” is all I manage to say.
“You nearly made me come last night, you know, if it wasn’t for the bloody robot voice.”
“Nearly doesn’t count. I need to meet you.”
I shake my head at myself. What am I saying? I wassupposed to get her out of my mind, and now all I can think about is her face when she comes. Seeing her smiling up at me, more satisfied than ever before, knowing it was because of me. And this chemistry we have.
It seems I need a new plan. Maybe we can do more of this. And then I can decide what I should do. I’m sure it’ll fizzle out before I have to decide anything.
“I’m here when you’re ready,” she says softly. “But for adate, I’m not a plaything.”
“Of course.”
“As much as I enjoyed this.” She lets out a laugh, a puff of air into the phone, and I swear I can hear her smiling. I picture those dimples that are etched into my memory from that first night.
The conversation feels like it’s drawing to an end, but I don’t want it to. I want her voice in my ear all day. I want to know what she likes, what she looks like when she eats, how that long hair flows around her face when she dances, what she does all day while I’m in the office.
“Don’t go,” I say. “Tell me more about your modelling job.”
“You know, normally people ask questions. You’re quite demanding.”
“Does it bother you?” I tease.
“Hmm. Not today. Feeling mellow.”
I chuckle, and she sighs.
“You said you love to dress up. Is it part of it?”
“Yes, it is. Remember I said I used to paint?”
“Yes.”
“It’s something I miss every day. Without it, a part of who I am is gone.” She huffs, almost like a small laugh, but I imagine there’s sadness in her face. “It probably sounds silly to you, but … the atmosphere modelling has been my sole creative outlet in the last few years. And it makes me feel in control of my path. I chose this job.”
I give her a moment to see if she will tell me more about her painting career, but I interpret it as something highly personal since she doesn’t explain of her own accord.
