"I don't believe you."
I say the words because they're true.
I say the words and hope, hope, hope so much that I'm wrong.
And the fact that I'm hoping is bad. I think. Yes, I definitely think it's bad.
"There isn't," he whispers. "There's no one. Why don't you believe me?"
"Because the first text you sent wasn't meant for me."
I close my eyes tight and wish I just had the strength to hang up. Wish I still didn't shiver and melt from the heat I feel inside me at the sound of his voice. Wish I wasn't still painfully aroused and on edge needing, needing, needing release.
"My first text doesn't matter," he says low and hot.
And even though he's not here – even though he's somewhere else entirely – it's almost like I can feel his breath all warm and wet in my ear.
"What does matter then?"
My hand grips the sheet that covers me.
Me.
My fingers press and squeeze until it hurts.
Tell me I matter.
"The first text you sent me."
And whatever I was expecting, it wasn't that. It wasn't those words.
"Why?" My voice is small, but I know he hears me.
"Because you responded," he says. "Because you kept responding. Because you're there…still there. And you don't have to be. And do you know what that tells me? Do you know what I think that means?"
I don't speak because I can't.
I don't even breathe because I'm afraid to.
And I don't know what he thinks that means.
But I know why I'm still here.
And just as I acknowledge the truth – just as soon as the realization hits me – he speaks.
"You're still there because you want to be," he breathes. "You're still there because you want this. And you want this with me."
Sex.
His voice is what I imagine sex would sound like if it could talk.
It drips and coaxes.
It commands and takes control.
And I can't help the loud breath that escapes me. Or maybe it's a moan. I don't know, I don't know. But I know I don't care anymore about the texts. I don't care why he's there and I'm here. I only care about the way my legs are stretching, spreading.
Wanting.
Wanting this so fucking much.
"Where are your hands?" he asks.
I'm frozen and can't speak.
"Tell me," he continues. "Where are they?"
"Next to me," I whisper.
"Good," he says, I can hear the smile in his voice again. "Keep them there."
My stomach clenches at his words. My hands grip tighter, harder. So fucking hard.
"Tell me something," he says smoothly.
And this is the man from before. This is the man I read about and dream about. This is the man who shouldn't ever really want me, but for some unexplainable reason he does.
"What?" I ask. "What do you want to know?"
His breathing is hard and short and a whole lot like mine.
"How long has it been since you touched yourself?" he asks.
A beat, a pause, a million heartbeats.
"A while."
"Tell me something else."
Anything.
"Anything."
"How long has it been since your fingers made you come?"
.
.
.
A/N
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