Page 15 of Sweet (Chicago Underground 7)
“You said you wanted persuasion. Is it working?”
I sat up slightly to pull my top off, then burrowed back under the covers with the phone to my ear. The covers felt impossibly rough against my sensitive skin, like sandpaper against velvet. It was an acute sort of pleasure, imagining it was touch, wishing it were the wet heat of his mouth against my puckered nipples instead of cold, dry fabric. “What about you? Take yours off too.”
&n
bsp; There was a rustling sound, and then his breath exhaling over the phone. “I’m here. Look down at your breasts. Tell me what you see.”
I lifted the covers enough to let dim light spread across my breasts. They looked just like they always did, and I barely knew how to describe them, much less in a way that was sexy. I bit my lip. Be brave. “I must be breathing faster than I realized, because they’re…they’re moving up and down as I’m watching them.”
A strangled sound came over the line. “What color are they, your nipples?”
They flushed darker as I watched them, as arousal flooded me. “I don’t know. Pink, brown? They’re drawing up tight.”
“Suck on your fingers and then touch yourself there.”
After a moment’s hesitation, I put my fingers to my lips. As I put the dampened tips on my nipples, he said, “Squeeze them. Imagine it’s me.”
“I do. Oh, I do.” The cold shock of wetness quickly turned to a burn. Pressure pulled taut before spreading lower in my body, down to my clit. I shifted my legs on the bed.
“The other side,” he demanded.
I sucked my fingers again, tasting the salt of my skin, before wetting the other nipple, pressing and pulling its point until a soft sigh escaped me.
“I want to be there,” he groaned. “I want to put my lips on your breasts, feel your nipples against my tongue.”
My legs squeezed together all on their own. “What else would you do?”
“I would lick and bite my way down your belly, your hips. Do that for me. Walk your fingers down your body and tell me how it feels.”
My skin tingled at his words, the sensation sharpening when I complied. I walked my fingers down my stomach, my nails a small bite in the soft flesh. “It feels…it feels…”
“Tell me,” he breathed.
“It’s fluttering. The muscles here are all shaky. Because I want…”
“Christ, me too. I want that too.”
“Please, touch me.”
“Yes, that’s right. Pull off your pants. Your panties. I want you bare for me.”
In a rush of fabric, I pulled from my constraints. I was completely naked under the covers and burning up. My sex felt swollen and aching—and I knew what would soothe it. Not my touch but his. His words took me outside myself. His eager concern for my pleasure brought me home.
“Run your fingers along the outer lips. I need to—I need to know what you feel.” His words came rougher now, stopping and starting in a jagged rhythm I recognized from within. He was feeling it too, this need to move and rock and do it together, because with him was so much fuller than ever alone.
“I’m wet here. But you knew that.”
“Yes.” A statement. A triumph.
“I’m smooth here.” I took a deep breath. “There’s no hair.”
He sucked in a breath. “You shave it?”
“Wax. It’s just easier…with dancing…to make sure nothing peeks or shows through.” I laughed a little nervously. “I have black hair and wear a pale leotard. No good. So I wax it all off.”
It was quiet a moment.
“What is it? Too much information?”
