Page 49 of Asking For It

I did—twisting and rolling—how long did he want me to do this for? It felt good, but it wasn’t enough. “I’m squeezing my thighs together.” My confession came out breathy. “I want more.”

His guttural, “Hmm...” rolled over me. “Slide your fingers between your legs. Tell me what it feels like.”

It felt like I wanted him here, those solid arms pinning my hands above my head while he pounded inside me. “I’m wet. Slippery. My panties are... useless.”

“Take them off. I want you naked in bed, thinking about me.”

“Done.”

Owen’s chuckle was gravel. “Spread your legs. Imagine me kneeling between them.”

“Like I could think of anything else right now.”

“There are so many nights I wish you and I had...” Owen trailed into one of those pauses. Instead of making me nervous, it built the anticipation, because I wished the same. “I’m stroking my cock,” he said. “Imagining sliding inside you. You’re so fucking tight. Slick. Perfect.”

“I’m using my fingers.” I pushed three inside myself. “It’s good, but not the same.”

“No toys?”

I had plenty, but they would stay in the drawer for now. “It’s not the same. I want to get lost in the fantasy of skin on skin.”

“Christ. Me too. Make yourself come, Kitty Cat. I want to hear the incredible sounds you make.”

Usually when I masturbated, I didn’t have the patience to hold out. But if I lasted longer, I kept Owen on the phone longer. I slipped between teasing my clit and dipping my fingers inside me. I lost track of talking and myself in the sensations, and letting them tear noises from me.

I held out as long as I could, but I hovered on the edge of orgasm, and had to push myself over. When I came, I let the cries and moans fall into the room, until my throat was dry and I was spent.

“Fucking hell, gorgeous.” Owen grunted as much as spoke. “I’m fisting my cock and stroking so hard it aches.”

I relaxed back into the sheets, and listened to his noises. Boldness, carried on post-orgasm bliss, filled me. “If you were here, I’d wrap my lips around you, then beg you to come inside me.”

“Jesus.” The noises Owen made were guttural. Almost primal. His breathing grew stuttered, followed by a rapid series of grunts, and one long one.

And then silence.

“You still there?” he asked roughly.

“Yes.”

“I wish you were here instead.”

I physically felt that sentiment. “Me too.”

“You’re incredible.”

I didn’t know how to respond. Another compliment, and I didn’t want to ruin the warm fuzzy glow. “How did you know?” My question was breathy.

“Know what? That you’re incredible? It’s pretty obvious.”

Thankfully no one could see how bright red I must be, flushed from the string of kind words. How to phrase my question? “You didn’t ask for pictures this time.”

“You don’t like pictures of yourself.”

“That’s true...”

“Don’t misunderstand”—Owen’s voice was throaty, rasping over me—“I love that photo of Kitty Cat Lyn. But I don’t want to push you away. Never, but especially tonight.” Did his voice catch?

“Whenwillyou be here? I want to actually feel you next time,” I said.

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