Heating Up the Holidays 3-Story Bundle(98)

He might not be good with words, but apparently it didn’t take many words, or particularly flowery ones, on his part to get her going. Possibly it was his voice, which even in wry reporting had this way of edging under her defenses.

“Here’s a better question,” she said. “What do you wish I were wearing?”

“Oh, God, I don’t know. Something skimpy I could tear off you with my teeth.”

She was having trouble breathing, the muscles tightening in a cascade down her chest and belly to pull up in a sharp ache between her legs. Her hand worked a little faster, following the lead set by her quickening breath. “Do you know that kind of underwear that looks sort of like shorts, but they’re really, really short, with lots of lace? They’re called boy shorts?”

“Yeah. You would look really hot in those.”

“Red,” she told him. “And a matching lace bra.”

“It would be a big waste, though, because if I were there I would get you out of them as soon as possible.”

“I wish you were here,” she said.

“I wish I were, too. If I were there, I’d—” His voice trailed off, low and rough, wrapping around her core and tugging.

“You don’t suck at dirty talk,” she said.

“That wasn’t dirty.”

“It was so dirty. It was full of sex stuff you didn’t say but were thinking.”

He made a sound, an aborted groan.

“The trick is to say it out loud,” she instructed. “Finish the sentence.”

“If I were there, I’d—”

But again he stopped, and she had to picture it for herself. If he were here, she’d want him to lie on top of her and fit the bulge in his jeans to the notch between her thighs, and then she’d show him the exact speed and pressure she wanted…

“Or, you know, don’t finish the sentence,” she offered. “Just keep saying that, because it’s working fine for me.”

“You said that before. What exactly does that mean, ‘It’s working fine for me’?”

“It means,” she said, “it’s making me really wet.”

There was a long silence at the other end of the phone, but she didn’t assume it spelled doom, possibly because she could hear him breathing. Hard.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Lying on my back. Hand between my legs. Rubbing.”

A rough exhalation in her ear. “I’m standing in my kitchen,” he said, the words jagged. “I should get the hell out of here.”

“Are there a lot of windows?”

“No.”

“So … what’s the problem?”

“I’m standing in my kitchen with an epic hard-on—”

“Keep going.” She’d gone from damp to wet through her jeans.

He hesitated.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to make you self-conscious. You were doing great. I’ve got my hand over my jeans. The friction is amazing. Sometimes it’s better this way than under my jeans. I don’t think I could stop even if you ordered me to, it feels that good.”

He groaned in earnest. “Fuck, Nora.”

“So, you’re standing in your kitchen with an epic hard-on, and now you’re going to …” she prompted.

“I’m unbuttoning my jeans and unzipping them.”

“And?”

“I’ve got my hand on my dick, which has not been this hard since New Year’s Eve.” Her next breath came as an audible half moan.

“It’s harder now. That was a good noise.”

She made another one, not entirely voluntarily. She was rubbing her palm harder over herself, and the rush of tingly heat was rapidly getting demanding. “Miles?” she said.

“Uh-huh?”

“I’m going to come embarrassingly fast.”

There was no phonetic equivalent for the sound he made then. All the vowel sounds had been forced out of it.

“But keep talking,” she instructed.

“Uh. I—” A rush of breath at his end, and she arched her back to press harder against her hand.

“Do you use your fist? Or rub?”

“Fist. Nora—”

“Do you think you could make yourself come really soon? Like, if I tell you when I’m about to—”

“Holy f*ck, Nora, the hard part is not coming right f*cking now.” It was a torrent of stuttered words and breath.

“I love it when you say ‘f*ck,’ ” she said, and then she lost control of the sensation. Her orgasm slammed her like something gathering up her thighs and * and womb and chest and brain in its throbbing, pulsing, totally possessive grip, and she heard herself yelling, “Oh, now, Miles, now, now, now, now, ohhhhhhhh.”

All she could hear at the other end of the phone was his strangled cry, but she knew, and she could picture the ropy white strands of his cum spilling over his fist, his face in ecstatic anguish.

It was a long time before either of them spoke, long enough that she had time to worry that he would be ashamed or regretful.

“It turns out that the kitchen is a very convenient place to be,” he said finally. “Paper towels, water, et cetera.”