“Hey.” His voice is a fuzzy blanket of warmth.
“Hi,” I breathe out, porn star style.
“I’m sorry I woke you. I tried to call earlier but my phone died and I had to wait for it to charge. How are you?”
God, I love him. Wait, what? No, no, I don’t love him. I love his sweetness.
“I’m okay. I’m sorry I didn’t call you until today . . .” I feel guilty for avoiding him, afraid he was all up in someone else’s beaver.
“I should’ve warned you. I know how the pictures look. Flying Sunny out was unplanned.”
My remorse overrides my ability to censor my response. “I like you. I didn’t expect to see you with someone else. I thought maybe my brand of crazy was a bit too much to handle.” Goddammit, I was doing such a . . . mediocre job at being unaffected. Now I’ve shot the mediocrity all to shit.
“You like me, eh?”
If I could melt into a puddle, I would. Those Canadianisms get me every time.
“Mm-hmm.” It practically comes out a sigh.
“I like you, too,” he says softly. “Can you take Friday off? I’d love to fly you out to Toronto. You can come to the game, and we can hang out for a few days. I’ll take you to Guelph.”
It’s hard not to get all swoony with Alex offering to fly me out to a foreign country. Okay, not foreign, but Canadians speak French and they have accents. I have vacation days. Time alone with Alex would be fantastic.
“Violet?”
Shit. I’ve been silent again.
“Please say yes, baby. I want you to come.” His voice is low, gritty.
He must know it drives me crazy in the best way when he calls me baby. “I want to.”
“We can get a hotel room the first night, then stay at my condo in the city for the rest of the weekend. Just the two of us.”
“You have a condo?”
“I do. My parents stay there when I have Toronto games.”
“Right. Of course.”
The idea of spending a weekend alone with Alex makes my thighs clench. It’s been days since I helped myself out, and now I’m warm and wet and wanting.
“I’ll have to check with work to see if I can get the time off. Last minute tickets will be expensive.”
I slide my palm down my stomach to my parted thighs, stifling a moan. My breathing is already heavy, so I hold the phone away from my mouth.
“Don’t worry ab—what are you doing?”
“Uh, I—uh . . .” Should I or shouldn’t I? Prior to my discovery of the picture of him and his sister, he’d been sending me dirty texts all week citing the things he couldn't wait to do to me when he got home. In one he mentioned spending an afternoon with his face between my thighs. Except he didn’t use that particular phrasing. I moan. Once the sound is out of my mouth, I can’t mulligan it back.
“Are you touching yourself?”
“Maybe.” I slip my fingers into the little pocket in the front. Boy’s underwear are so convenient.
“Yes or no, Violet?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, fuck. Are you petting my *?”
Oh sweet baby Jesus, he called it his. “Uh-huh.”
I bite my lip to keep from moaning too loudly.
“Don’t hold back. Tell me what you’re doing. God, I wish I could see you.”
“I—I—”
“You gonna get all shy with me now? It’s just you and me. There’s no one but us. Give me something to get through the next few days.” His voice is soft, encouraging.
“Alex. I . . .” It’s barely a whisper.
“Do you wish it was me? My fingers touching you?”
“Oh, God.” I’ve never had phone sex. I’m not a conscious sex talker. The crap I spew is unintentional. “Yes, I wish it was you.”
“Me, too, baby. Me, too. Where are your fingers?”
I hesitate for a fraction of a second. “My clit.”
“Are you wet like you were for me?”
I debate the merits of telling the truth or embellishing for the sake of phone sex hotness. “Uh-uh.”
“No?”
“Not nearly as wet as I get for you.” I’m all breathy and moany.
This is total bullshit. I’m one of those naturally lubey people. It’s a goddamn blessing. However, I’m all for stroking Alex’s ego while we stroke ourselves.
“I can’t wait to have my mouth on you again. I’m gonna eat you like I’m on death row and you’re my last goddamned meal.”
I moan—because what other response does a declaration like that warrant? Alex is really good at the phone sexing.
I rub in earnest as Alex whispers dirty things in my ear about how he wishes it was his fingers and his mouth, how good it will be when he finally gets inside me again, and how much he wishes it was my hand on his cock right now.
“I miss your cock,” I whisper.
“You do, eh?” He follows that bit of Canadian cuteness with, “Tell me how you feel about my cock.”
Good lord, this man’s head is about to explode right along with his dick. “I love your cock, Alex.”
He sucks in a sharp breath.