Page 56 of Sunshine
Dylan
Yeah.
How many have you got so far?
Dylan
Four. A pale kind of blue. A bright kind of pink. A little bit of purple. And gold. But a dusty kind of gold. Subtle. Almost invisible.
I read back his text a dozen times, stunned that he paid that much attention, and that he still remembers all that detail after so many hours.
There’s also indigo and violet.
Dylan
Really? Where?
I don’t think twice about the wisdom of what I’m about to do before I close our chat and swipe through to my camera. Then I settle on the pillows, lift my t-shirt just enough to show off a little under-boob and the lines of the dragonfly on my sternum, take a picture from the vantage point that Dylan had today—from my hips looking upward—and hit send.
Dylan replies straightaway.
Dylan
Fuck. I’ll never get over that view.
Send me another one.
I rearrange myself on the bed again, taking care to make my hair look a little wild and adjusting the neck of my baggy t-shirt to hint at cleavage. Then I settle on the pillows, hold my phone high overhead, and take a pic.
And I don’t love it. It’s cute but it’s not particularly sexy, so I do the first risqué thing that comes to mind. I slip my hand inside my underwear and try again.
And it’s hot.
The pic only shows my wrist and belly button, but it’s obvious where I’ve got my hand. Is it too much? Maybe, but the thought of Dylan lying in his bed, getting turned on by a photo of me, touching and stroking and sweating over it, makes me ache, so I attach the image and hit send.
And I wait.
It isn’t long before another picture from Dylan pops up on the screen. It’s from the waist down this time, his hand tucked into the soft gray cotton of his sweats, the fabric tented by his erection. I’m already breathless at the size of the thing when I notice the live photo symbol in the corner. I hold my finger to the screen and whimper as his fist works his cock underneath his pants. Up and down. Up and down.
Oh, God. I want him so badly. I want mine to be the hand he thrusts into.
I set my camera to video mode, point the lens toward my thighs, and watch the screen as I slide my fingers into my underwear and through my slick folds. I find my core and plungetwo fingers deep inside, and then pump once. Twice. A third time. With a quiet, needy moan, I extract my wet fingers and stop the recording.
I attach the video to a message and hit send.
While I wait for Dylan to reply, I slip into my underwear again, fingering myself and playing with my clit until I’m on the edge of orgasm. My phone chimes before I get there, and when I open the message from Dylan, I desperately tap to open the clip attached.
His dick isn’t in his pants anymore. It’s in his hand. Pink and swollen and glorious. He thrusts into it, thighs tense and hips lifting off the mattress as he fucks his palm with strangled grunts. I rub my clit with increasing frenzy as Dylan jerks off to the camera, and when he explodes all over his stomach, glistening white cum painting his washboard abs to the soundtrack of his muffled groans, I switch with a frantic hand to my camera so I can film the moment I come against my fingers, crying out against my pillow as my pussy clenches and releases around nothing.
I send the video to Dylan, drop my phone, and close my eyes as I ride the fading waves of my climax. It dissolves in gentle pulses as I catch my breath.
Wow. Holy freakingwow. I’ve never come like this. Never. And if it’s this good now, how shattering will it be when we do this for real?
And I can’t imagine a future where we don’t.
I collect my phone when it chimes and read Dylan’s text.
Dylan
