Mine (Real, #2)(46)
He nods, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration. Then he drops his face and rubs the screen with both hands. He lifts his head and narrows his eyes. “I want to touch you. I’m about to take a bite out of this f*cking screen.”
A small laugh leaves me, then I groan and cover my eyes, too. Skyping is not such a great idea. Oh god, it makes you yearn. I see him and yearn and hurt and it aches. “It hurts to see you. I want to smell you too,” I say.
He lifts a camisole of mine. “I found this in my suitcase.” He lifts it and smells it, and I gasp and can almost feel his nose at my neck, scenting me. Licking me.
“Shit, Brooke, I want to be there, take you in my arms, spread you open on your bed, and f*ck you until tomorrow.”
Desire explodes in my stomach as those rough words hit me. “Oh, god, me too.”
His eyes flash as he leans forward, the muscles in his upper body rippling with the move. “I wish I were there so I could squeeze your breasts and bite the tips and tell you how much I want you.”
My bones have disintegrated inside me. The place between my legs now burns and yearns. My voice is achy and needy, full of arousal. “I want you like I’ve never wanted anything in my life,” I breathe, my bare breasts already puckered in the air and sensitive even to the brush of the air-conditioning.
“Do you want my cock in you?” he asks roughly.
Exhaling a shaky breath, I curl my fingers around my breasts merely because they’re suddenly heavy and hurting. They’re hurting so much for him. “Remy, you’re killing me.”
“No. This is killing me,” he says softly, rubbing the screen in a way that lets me imagine his thumb scraping my lips, running down my jaw, circling the hard points of my nipples. “Tell me you want my cock in you and then pretend your fingers are me. Drop your hands, Brooke. Show me your nipples.”
“Remy,” I say, my heart squeezing in need as I close my hands around my breasts.
A low, rumbling growl rips up his throat as he leans even closer. “Brooke,” he rasps, rubbing his thumb over the screen again. “When I see you I’m going to get my f*cking hands all over you. I’m going to run my tongue all over your pretty body. Then I’m going to rub it for hours against your clit.”
“Oh, god, Remy . . .” My clit throbs between my thighs as I rock my hips as I think about licking his neck, his chest, the star tattoo on his navel.
“Why are you holding your breasts in your hands? Are you pretending that it’s me?” he demands huskily. When I nod, he tells me, “Good. Then pinch them slowly, like you like it. And then go south and rub yourself for me.”
“But I want to touch you,” I say, his command sending prickles of excitement racing across my skin. “I want to run my tongue all over your chest and lick your nipples as I stroke my hands down your biceps and rub up your quads and abs. . . .”
His eyes twinkle with mischief and he shakes his head. “No, Brooke,” he chides me. “Don’t talk sexy to me if you’re not going to do what I tell you first.”
“I’ll go south if you go south too,” I dare him, my pulse beating frantically in my throat while the heat he’s kindling inside me starts to slowly, surely, burn me.
He doesn’t hesitate and moves. My body tightens, and a cataclysm of arousal seizes me as I watch his forearm flex and his arm disappear beneath his waist. I can perfectly picture his big hand stroking over himself, and my * suddenly weeps.
“Remy, I want to kiss you there,” I choke, need clogging my throat, “and then I want to eat you all up, and afterward, I want to get all sticky and feel all loved and beautiful because of you.”
His voice gentles as I watch his arm move slightly. “Brooke, whether I’m there or not, you are loved and you are beautiful.”
“Remy,” I say, going south too with my fingers because I’d promised him. When I find myself slick and tender and swollen, I inhale sharply. “I need you. Call me on the phone.”
“What do you mean, little firecracker?”
“Call me on the phone.”
We hang up in Skype and I answer my phone on the first ring, and his voice sounds closer. So close it spills into me, sexier than sex itself, deep and dark with lust, and I can hear his breath in my ear, and a passionate fluttering arises everywhere inside me.
“I need you, Remy,” I explode. “I just need all of you—your heat, your mouth, your voice, you.” I close my eyes and slide my finger over the outer folds of my sex, stroking myself like he strokes me.
“God, tell me how much you need me,” he says, and his breathing sounds faster and a little rougher.
And suddenly his voice is just so close that in my head—he’s with me, his lips near my ear, his husky timbre sending a weak quivering to my thighs, and I whisper to him, “So much it’s torture to see you, to hear your voice.”
His voice is raspy. “Baby, I need you around me, clutching the f*ck out of me.”
“I’m dying to see you.”
“In three weeks we’re fighting in Seattle, and I’m coming to you. And I’m going to strip you to your skin and reacquaint my whole body with yours. Every part of it.”
“I hate that you can’t be in me,” I admit thickly, my eyes fluttering shut as my body loses itself in the sound of his voice and a flush of heat spreads throughout my skin.