Page 47 of Crossing Lines

I stroke faster, feeling the pressure build. “Then I come up for a kiss, let you taste your sweetness.”

“Ahh…” Her whimpers set off a rush of ecstasy.

“Then inch inside you.” I clench my teeth, my toes curling as my dick explodes, spilling onto my shirt.

“Fuck…” It sounds like she’s scrambling. “Shit. I have to go.”

“Wait, Davi.” I’m still gasping from the waves of pleasure.

“Please don’t say a word,” she pleads. “I can’t… I don’t know why I did this.”

“It’s okay. I promise it’ll stay between us.”

“Goodnight.”

As the call cuts off, I slump back on the chaise and eye my mess. Having phone sex with Davia was fun. I don’t feel an ounce of guilt over wanting to make it real.

EIGHTEEN

My body is ablaze with both guilt and lust. I rush into the bathroom, remove my clothes and soaked panties, and take a warm shower.

I can’t believe Kross had me on the phone dishing intimate details while touching myself. I’m not sure how I’ll move on from what I did.

Drying off, I haul on my long tee and call Trishell.

“Hey, cuz,” she chirps. “How’s Paris?”

“Trish,” I groan, sitting at the foot of my bed.

“What’s wrong, cuz? Talk to me.”

Gripping the fabric, I swallow the lump in my throat and come out with it. “Is phone sex still cheating?”

“What?” she shrieks. “You had phone sex with Kross? I knew your ass couldn’t avoid him. I saw the twinkle in your eyes when you told me about the rooftop.”

I pick at the hem of the tee while revealing the rest. “He gave me his number before I left for Paris. I called him every day. Tonight, he somehow managed to coerce me into masturbating while detailing what I want him to do to me.”

“Shiiiiit,” she stretches, chuckling softly.

I ruffle my hair. “Trish, it’s not funny. How do I get past this? Why did I even do that?”

“You’re attracted to him,” she stresses as if I’m unaware. “It was a lapse in judgment. What did Kross say?”

“He promised to keep it a secret.”

“Well, there you have it. What happens in Paris stays in Paris. Just move on and forget about it. You still want to be with Jamir?”

“Yes, of course.” And yet, my answer lacks strength.

There’s a delay before Trishell harrumphs. “Okay, then, don’t mention what happened. Let it be nothing.”

It doesn’t feel likenothing.

“Okay,” I mutter, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

I wince as the door unlocks. Iree enters, face flushed from drinking. Her bob still has an edgy wet look that pairs well with her faux leather jacket, cowl-neck green top, black tights, and matching heels.

“I’ll see you when I get back,” I tell Trishell.

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