Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
A groan falls off my lips.
"Are you starting without me?" he asks.
"If that's what it takes."
"You'll like it."
"That's not a clue." I reach around my back, unhook my bra, snap another picture.
Woosh.
Blush.
Buzz.
It's a perfect, delicious rhythm.
"Imogen—"
"Tell me."
"Another chance to be watched."
"Where?"
"My place."
"Are you inviting someone?"
"No."
"A mirror?"
"More than a mirror."
A camera. He wants to record us.
I nearly come on the spot.
I lose my head completely. "Show me."
"Show you?"
"Lose the clothes and show me."
"Uh-uh. You're first."
A whine spills from my lips, but I don't object.
"Panties off."
I shove them to my ankles. Even though he doesn't ask for a picture, I take one.
He responds with a groan. "Baby—"
"Shirt."
He doesn't object. He shifts. Moves.
It takes a minute, but he does what I ask. He sends a photo of his shoulders, chest, stomach.
"Pants," I say.
"Uh-uh," he says. "Not until I hear you come."
Which is more selfish, accepting his offer or insisting on the photo first? I don't know. I don't care.
I know I need satisfaction.
My body responds for me.
My hand slips between my legs. "Where are we?"
"The party."
"Where?"
"Outside, but not off to the side. In front of everyone. The people in the pool, the people at the table, the people inside. We're in view of everyone."
"Yeah?"
"You're in that gorgeous bikini. Barefoot. Sopping wet. I'm in jeans and a t-shirt."
I close my eyes and let myself drift to the scene.
"You undo the strap of your bikini. And everyone watches with rapt attention, desperate to see your breasts. Then the bottoms too. And you're standing there, naked, and wet in front of everyone."
"And you stay dressed."
"At first. I pull you against me."
"Even though I'm soaking wet?"
"Yeah. My shirt and jeans get wet, but I don't care. I hold you close and show you off to the entire room. Then I whisper in your ear, 'I want everyone to see how pretty you are when you come,' and I slip my hand between your legs."
"My head falls back and you press your lips to my neck."
"And I work you slowly, so everyone can watch the pleasure spread all over your face."
I can see it in my head. It's the perfect fantasy—too revealing to attempt in real life, so enticing here.
"You come hard and fast, and everyone watches with rapt attention, like you're they're favorite movie."
"Then?" I'm close. So close. I rub myself with the strokes I need, again and again.
"I undo my jeans and arch your back and drive right into you. Everyone watches as I fuck you, right there on the concrete. You're on display to the entire fucking room."
There. With the next brush of my fingers, I come. The tension inside me unravels. Pleasure spills through my torso, down my legs, all the way to my fingers and toes.
I can practically feel his body against mine, his cock inside me, those eyes on us.
I want that—
But I want this more—the two of us sharing this intimate fantasy together.
"Your turn," I say.
"I like it this way."
"Please."
He lets out a heavy sigh.
"I can narrate. Whatever you want to imagine."
"No. I want this. The two of us on the phone, you begging to hear me come."
"Please, Tricky."
A zipper releases.
"A picture. Please. I want to see you, how much you want me, how badly I drive you out of your mind."
His breath catches.
"I want to touch myself to it later."
"Fuck."
"And I want your face in it. I want to see the desire in your eyes."
"Not sure I can capture my eyes."
"The mouth then. I love your mouth."
He lets out a heavy sigh, moves, and adjusts something.
My phone buzzes with an image.
Patrick, from his nose to his thighs, buck naked, his hand wrapped around his cock.
It's not the most likely angle or the best lighting, but I love it all the same. More because it's rushed and needy and desperate.
"Please," I say it again. "Fuck yourself. For me."
His breaths run together.
A moan falls from his lips.
Then something deeper, needier.
"Come for me." I blush, but I press on. "Please. I want to hear you."
He lets out a low, deep groan.
And he lets go. Those beautiful, perfect sounds run together. His movements speed.
And then he’s there, groaning my name into the receiver, working through his orgasm.
There's something about hearing him, sharing this fantasy, a whole other kind of intimacy.
It feels really fucking good.
He catches his breath and mutters obscenities into the phone.
"Thank you," I say.
He laughs. "Thank you again?"
"It worked the first time."
"I like it."
"Is it sexy?" I ask.
"Yeah. It's Imogen."
"Then you're welcome. Or thank you. I'm not sure where that lands."
"Me either."
"Is it okay if I sign off?" I ask. "I do have a lot of homework."
"If I see you Friday night."
"Do we have to talk?"
"No," he says.
"You sure?"
He hesitates, but he still says, "yes."
Chapter Forty-Two
PATRICK
All week, my phone buzzes.
New entry from Hearts & Thorns.
The reminders rack up on my screen, in my emails, in my head.