"Wet enough to handle my fingers?" he asks, pants. "Wet enough to handle my cock? Or would I have to lick you first? Because I want you drenched."

My body jerks as my finger presses down hard. I hold it there, willing myself not to come yet, but I could. I moan loudly – too loudly. And I know that I will never be able to read another book again without hearing his voice, remembering his words. Because they are so much better than any dirty words that have ever been imagined. And they're so much better because he's saying them to me.

"Stop," he says.

"Fuck me," I moan.

And I don't know what he wants me to stop doing. Does he want me to stop touching myself? Does he want me to stop speaking? Honestly, I don't think I can do either. Not now. Not when everything, everything is so close.

I am so fucking close.

"I would." His voice is low. "If I were there, I would fuck you so hard and so good. And I promise you would come…but not yet. I wouldn't let you come yet."

My hand stills and moves to my belly. I can feel my fingers slick and wet against my skin. I'm breathing hard and needing, needing, needing something so much.

Anything.

"I want…" I whimper. "Oh, god."

"What do you want?" he asks. "Tell me what you want."

This.

Everything, everything, everything.

"You."

Silence.

And I don't know why.

Silence.

And I wonder if I've said too much.

"Fuck," he says. "Yeah, you do. You want me, don't you?"

My fingers press down against my stomach. I can feel the sting of my short nails biting into my skin.

"Yes."

I don't care how I sound. I don't care that this isn't real. Because it feels real. I feel so much. More than I've felt in so long. Maybe more than I've felt ever.

"Spread yourself open," he whispers. "Take two fingers and spread yourself open for me."

And I do.

And my hands shake against my skin that's so hot it's burning.

"Do you feel that?" he whispers.

"What?" I ask.

I think I ask.

I'm not sure if I'm actually speaking.

"Tell me what you feel," he says. "Because I know you're feeling something."

And I can't believe he wants me to talk – can't believe he wants me to do anything more than try not rub my clit.

"I can't," I tell him, frustration apparent in my voice.

"You can," he encourages. "Now, tell me what you're feeling . Right now."

I swallow, I breathe.

I speak.

"I feel my fingers," I tell him, licking my dry lips. "I'm hot…down there…I'm hot."

Stupid.

My words are stupid.

"Down there?" he asks. I can hear the smile in his voice. "Down where? Tell me…what are you touching?"

And he wants me to say it.

And I want to say it.

"My…my pussy."

It's a whisper, but he hears it. He groans and I feel better. He groans and I know that he likes it. And that gives me confidence.

"Is the air cold against your wet pussy?" he asks, his voice shaking just a little. And maybe he isn't all that different from me. Maybe he's just as affected.

"Yes."

"Do you want me to let you rub it?" he asks. "Touch it? Do you want me to let you finger yourself?"

"Please," I beg.

No really, I'm fucking begging.

And it should piss me off, but it doesn't.

I should be angry, but I'm not.

"Do you think one finger will be big enough for you to imagine it's my cock?" he whispers, his voice still smiling.

And I can't help but think about his cock. Can't help but wish for it. And I wonder what it looks like. I wonder just how big it is. If this were a book, his cock would be as big as my wrist.

"No," I breathe. "I wouldn't."

He groans.

Me, too.

"Use two."

.

.

.

A/N

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