Page 41 of How to Bang a Billionaire

And I wasn’t going to let him down.

“I’m yours, aren’t I?” I said. “That means everything.”

“Yes. Mine.” Something like a groan crackled over the line. “God, Arden, I wish I could see you.”

“I…I…um…could tell you if you like? Or…send a picture?”

“You shouldn’t do that. These things always get out.”

“Yeah, because Random Naked Nobody is totally going to go viral.”

“You might be somebody someday. Tell me instead. How you look and how you feel.”

I opened my mouth but I had no idea what I was going to say. This was way more awkward than I’d thought it would be when I’d suggested it. “Well, uh, you kind of already know? I’m kind of short and skinny and…squinting down at myself is not the most flattering because all I can see are my ribs, and my cock, and my tattoo, and my rainbow toenails, and my knees look super-knobby.”

“Are you hard?”

“Yeah. Like fucking titanium.” I stared at my own dick, which was straining so urgently the foreskin had pulled almost all the way back, exposing the head, which looked shiny and vulnerable and glisteny with precome. I blushed in some crazy combination of desire and anticipatory embarrassment. I was going to have to tell him. “And…uh…dripping. I’m really, uh…I really want you.”

I was quietly dying, but he practically purred at me: “Well, I’m not ready to touch you yet.”

I closed my lips on a sound of frustration but then remembered my promise and let it free. And there I was: alone in my room, horny as fuck, and whimpering into my phone for the pleasure of a man in another city.

“What else?” he asked.

I let my head push against the pillow, exposing my throat to nobody but imagining the heat of his breath, the brush of his fingers, my pulse jumping to meet him. “God, I don’t know. I’m just me.”

“I wanted to see that day in Oxford. Strip those jeans off you, though they didn’t exactly leave much to the imagination.”

“Im—” My breath caught, thinking of him thinking of me, all those dark thoughts locked behind his cold eyes. “Imagination is overrated.”

“Your nipples are pierced, aren’t they?”

“How did you know?”

“I could see through your T-shirt. I think you had a butterfly in one.”

My nipples were tingling now, peaking like the attention-seeking little sluts they were. “Yes. Just a rainbow pincher in the other. It’s rings tonight, though.” Oh God, if he didn’t let me touch myself, I was going to die. Combust right there, leaving behind only ashes and quirky body jewelry.

“Put a finger in your mouth.”

It was what I’d been waiting for but still the instruction—the fact I was being instructed—startled me. But I did it, of course I did. I actually groaned, even though it was me I was tasting, me pressing past the barrier of my lips and into the damp heat of my mouth.

“Make it wet.”

I imagined it was him. Taking all the slick, tender places inside me.

“Touch your nipples. Gently though. Just a brush, a slide. The way I would.”

If you’d asked me to rate my nipples by sensitivity, I’d probably have gone fair to moderate. Maybe a bit more since I’d had them pierced. But when I danced my damp finger lightly over the left one, it felt like I’d been hit by lightning. Hit by lightning in a good way, an awesome way, arching my spine and crackling through my skin and dragging this sound out of me, needy and frantic. “Fuck. God. Caspian.”

He answered with a groan of his own. “I wish I really was touching you.”

“You are, oh you are.” I clenched my hands in my sheets to stop them acting without his direction. I could feel traces of drying moisture as sharply as if they were grains of sand. A deep, helpless shiver rolled through me. “Please touch me again.”

“Yes. Softly though. Tease.”

Maybe I should have been more aware of just how fucking weird it was, tormenting myself for a voice on the phone, but self-consciousness was dissolving, leaving only this dazed and desperate arousal. The same desire to please I’d felt kneeling at his feet.

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