Page 109 of Between the Lines

A thought crosses my mind, her gushing in my sheets, and I mentally add another purchase to my cart. Something we can try together later.

“Next time then. When I get home.”

“I want you to do it to me.”

I grunt, squeezing my cock against that image, of me plunging a toy inside Claire.

“Did you…”

I shake my head, and angle my phone downward again, stroking myself for her.

“You poor thing. Come for me, Nathan. I want to see you.”

Panting, I stroke myself, squeezing harder on each thrust.

It doesn’t take long before my release coats my stomach, her name on my lips as it does. I collapse against the pillows, my phone resting over my chest as I come down. I hear her in my ears, a giggle of my name, and lift it so that I can see her.

That sweet face is exactly what I need. Wrapped up in my clothes. In my sheets. Smiling at me and telling me, “I wish you were here.”

“I do too.”

We lay there. Staring at our phones. As if we were next to each other. Her in this hotel room, me in my bed next to her.

“I should probably get cleaned up,” I say.

“Oh. Yeah. Me too. I’ll throw your sheets in the wash?—”

“You don’t have to?—”

“I insist.”

There’s no point in arguing. We both have a task, and yet neither of us moves.

“I don’t want to get off the phone.”

I surprise myself by saying it first.First, as if she was going to say it too.

“Oh, good. Me neither.”

That relief in her exhale has me believing she was about to.

After we take a few minutes to ready ourselves for bed, I settle against the pillows in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, and lift my phone to find a cozy sight: Claire, bundled up in the study, a fire going in the background, and a warm mug of tea in hand.

“Is this okay? I just figured, if we were going to stay on the phone?—”

“It’s perfect.”

My heart aches at that sight. Sure, Claire in the throes of orgasm in my sheets was something to behold. But her, in my space, all cozy and warm? Comfortable being there alone? Making her mark on my home? Thatdoes somethingto me.

We talk until after midnight. About our days. The conference. She tells me about her girls’ night, and I tell her about the baseball coach from Meadow Ridge that tagged along with our group all weekend. She begins to doze, and I remind her that the fireplace is lit behind her, which rouses her from her blanket burrito. And then, she takes me along with her to lock up my house. The moment she tells me she’s going to hang up so that she can drive home, panic sets in.

The late night hour. Incompetent drivers on the road. My fault, my fault, my fault.

“You can’t drive home like this.”

“I’ll be fine,” she yawns. “It’s like, less than fifteen minutes to Penelope’s.”

“Stay the night.Please.”

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