Page 62 of Make Me Dream of You

2Horned:

Good girl. Spread your legs for me, Angel

Show me that pretty little pussy

ANG3L:

It’s all yours

2Horned:

I can’t wait to taste you. But I’ll take my time. I’ll kiss and lick you nice and slow.

ANG3L:

Fuck. I want that

2Horned:

I’ll go down on you until you are writhing under me. Until you beg me to make you come

ANG3L:

I want you to make me come

I want to come for you

And I do, I want to, need to, satiate this ache. My fingers are slippery as I touch and play, getting wetter by the second.

2Horned:

Good girl. I won’t stop until you do. Until you can’t form words and your legs are shaking and my face is covered in you

ANG3L:

Jesus Christ

2Horned:

No. I’m quite the opposite

I’d beg to differ. The way he can stoke my libido with his words and have me panting through my screen is godly. He tells me how beautiful I am, laid out before him and how perfect my moans are. And even though it’s all imaginary, it feels real. My reaction is real. I feel beautiful. Powerful. Sexy.

I moan for him, not even trying to be quiet. I wonder if Noah is still touching himself upstairs while I’m bringing myself close to climax. Did I ruin his fun, or did he like it? Is he thinking about me as he strokes himself now? If I moan loud enough, can he hear me?

The little devil in my phone pushes me farther, urging me to come for him, telling me how much he wants to come, but he won’t let himself until I do first.

I imagine him between my legs, my faceless devil. But it’s Noah’s face. It’s always been Noah’s face. And now it’s Noah’s cock, too. I’ll never be able to picture anything but his…perfectly thick and smooth…

Fuck. I’m so close.

I picture Noah up there, coming in spurts across his chest and abs while listening to me masturbate, and it pushes me over the edge. I fall into an abyss. Dark and weightless. I am not a body, only pure sensation and joy. Stars sparkle around the edges of my vision as I come back to myself, heavy and panting on the mattress.

CHAPTER 12

NOAH

My wakeup call is Wood singing “Driver’s License” by Olivia Rodrigo down in the kitchen—if one could call that singing, it’s more like wailing.

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