Desperate to the Max (Max Starr, #3) by Jasmine Haynes
Prologue
She luxuriated in a perfumed tub, silky water lapping at her breasts. Caressing her nipples into tight buds, she dipped beneath the surface to cup herself. The warmth of the bath, her body’s redolence, her own light touches, all drove her close to orgasm, but she held back. It wasn’t time yet. Orgasm required perfect timing to reach that ultimate pinnacle.
Drying off with a fluffy towel fresh from the wash, she blotted the droplets, then buried her face in the clean, sweet scent. The rich aroma of sesame oil tantalized her nose as she smoothed it into her skin, softening her thighs, her belly, her breasts. She imagined a man’s big hands kneading the oil into the sensitive spot where neck met shoulder. A moan fell from her lips as she savored the delicious sensations. Next she dabbed her favorite cologne. At the back of her knees. The crook of her elbow. Behind her ears. The hollow of her throat. Between her ample breasts. They were her best asset, the kind that filled a man’s cupped hands, the kind a man could pillow-fuck and feel like he’d driven himself deep inside a woman.
The peach robe slipped along her arms, then caressed her shoulders like velvet. She slid her feet into forties-style mules, the boa-like feathers across the strap tickling her toes, then sat in front of the vanity for half an hour, primping, pampering, rouging her cheeks, turning her lips ripe and full with liner and red lipstick. A beauty mark at the corner of her mouth was the crowning touch.
She rose, descended the stairs, and once in her living room, lit two peach candles for scent and four votives for mood. The wine she poured was a sweet, white dessert variety which perfectly complimented the plate of succulent Belgian truffles. She allowed herself twenty; they’d have to last the whole night. She knew she could do it.
Settling on the sofa, head cradled by a satin pillow, she put on the headset and plugged it into the phone. She preferred the headset to Bluetooth because it didn’t suddenly run out of juice—so to speak—at a critical moment.
Then it was midnight. She came alive at midnight. The phone rang at twelve-o-one.
“Hello, this is Helen. What can I do for you tonight?” she purred.
“I wanna ram my cock in your mouth. Take it all, bitch.”
God, some men were so unimaginative. They went straight for the climax instead of enjoying the journey.
She moaned for him. “Oh baby, you’re so big. Give it to me. Mmmm. Come to Mamma, big boy.”
They said she had a voice that could make a man come in two seconds flat. This one climaxed in less. Or maybe his problem was premature ejaculation. She didn’t know and didn’t care. She clicked off and waited.
Another call. Another voice. Virtually the same words, once she got him going. She waited for something more, someone more. While there was power in listening to men groan and moan, listening to them come merely from the sound of her voice, the fantasy was missing and the feeling that they wanted her, only her, no one but her. Only one voice gave her that sense.
A sound came from the kitchen. Kitty-Kat jumping from the floor to the counter to the top of the refrigerator. She almost got up to shoo him away, but the phone rang again.
Two more calls. Short. To the point. One wanted her to be an underage teenage hitchhiker; the other pretended she was his wife whom he’d discovered in the bedroom sucking the mailman’s cock. Her body had picked up the rhythm, the hum of sex. Now she craved one particular man, one special phone call. And she waited.
He didn’t disappoint her.
“I thought about you all night, Helen,” he murmured in his deep sexy rasp.
Achilles to her Helen of Troy. She’d chosen the name because she’d wanted the face and the body of a woman who’d launched a thousand ships. He was her poet, her romantic. He’d touched her core from that first call over a year ago. They’d long since passed the need for role-playing.
“What are you wearing, Helen?”
“That black garter belt you love, stockings, my black lace bra.”
He moaned. “I want to be inside you. Now.”
She undid the tie of her robe, then ran her fingers across her sensitized nipples. “Do you want me to touch myself?”
“Tell me what it feels like.” His voice was a low groan across the phone line, followed by a buzz and a crackle.
“You’re not on a cell phone, are you?” She didn’t mind if anyone listened in most of the time, but not with him. He was hers alone.
“No. Squeeze your nipples for me. Pinch them.”
She did, lightly, rewarding him with a moan.
“Spread your legs.”
“Oh yes, for you.” Her hand trailed across her stomach, through the nest of hair between her thighs.
“Are you wet?”
“So wet.” She was dripping.
“Put a finger inside yourself. Does it feel good?”
Her only answer was a deep hum she knew he could hear.