“Yes.”
“Oh, fuck, he wants that too. He wants it so much he can’t think of anything else.” I’m so hot, I’m leaking come. It weeps over the swollen head, coats my shaft as my fist moves faster, harder.
“I want him to fuck… Fuck me. Gray…”
And then I hear it. The sweetest fucking sound ever. A low, keening wail, almost pained but so full of pleasure that the hairs on the back of my neck lift.
Everything is muffled, like she’s trying to stifle the sounds but she can’t. And I’m so attuned to her right now I hear every one of them. I bite my lip and taste blood. Ivy coming.
My chest heaves. Heat licks over my balls, down between my thighs. My ass clenches on the next thrust. “Oh shit. Honey, I’m gonna—”
The orgasm hits at full velocity. I arch up, my hips leaving the bed, my body locked in pleasure. A strangled, broken shout leaves my lips as come lands in hot strips across my abs and chest. My vision goes dark, my hand jerking every last drop of lust and need from my abused cock. And then I fall limp upon the bed, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Jesus.
For a moment I lie there, shaking and damp, fucking weak as a kitten. Licking my dry lips, I try to get my bearings, the room rocking drunkenly around me. And then I remember. Oh, shit. Ivy. I came harder than I ever have in my life on the phone with Ivy.
Panic punches into my chest, and I lurch up, scrambling for the phone lost amidst the rumpled covers. My ears burn hot, my heart racing. What to say? What will she say?
Hands shaking, I yank free the headphones and lift the phone to my ear. “Iv—” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “Ivy? You… Are you—”
My mouth snaps shut. Because she’s not there. The line is dead.
Thirteen
Gray
I’m home. Which is to say, I’m standing in front of Ivy’s door. I’ve been standing here too long. The neighbors are going to start to wonder what the hell I’m doing. Fuck if I know. My balls are in danger of freezing, and I can’t make myself knock.
We’d had phone sex. I’m almost positive of it. And how messed up is it that I’m not sure? Had she realized I’d jacked off to her breathless voice? Had she hung up before or after I came? I’m not certain. And it’s doing a number on me.
I’m all twitchy and tense. It’s like a false start. Am I going to get called for stepping over the line before the snap? Or is the fact that she enjoyed it permission enough to let this transgression slide?
Because there is one thing I do know. She got off on our conversation too. I heard those little strangled whimpers she’d made. As if she’d tried so hard not to be heard but the orgasm was too strong to fully contain. And oh, sweet hell, just thinking about it has my cold dick heating up.
I know when she opens the door and I see her face, I won’t be able to stop myself from touching her. I don’t want to resist anymore. I want to sink myself into Ivy, surround myself in her warmth and freshness. I want to hear that sound again and discover new sounds, make her lose control, shout my name.
My hand shakes as I lift it to knock. Knuckles rapping against the door, my heart pounds out a rhythm that sounds like Ivy, Ivy, Ivy in my head.
I hear her approaching. Mouth dry, I wait. My dick is so hard now, it’s pushing against my jeans with an eagerness that’s staggering. I have never wanted this badly. Never waited this long.
I almost whimper when the door swings open. But then I see her and promptly wilt.
“Mac,” I get out. “Honey, you look…”
“Awful,” she finishes for me with a voice that sounds like a dying frog’s. Pale and pasty, her eyes are swollen and red, her nose running. She makes a pitiful face and then sobs. “I feel like ass.”
I hate sickness. Being around ill people freaks me out now. But I don’t hesitate. I step into the house and pull her close.
* * *
Ivy
My face hurts, literally hurts, like someone has used it as a punching bag and stomped on it for good measure. Add the fact that my head felt like a bowling ball teetering on the top of my neck, and I’d wanted to weep when I’d trudged toward my door. I’d known who was banging on it, and I hadn’t felt like facing him when I looked like the walking dead. To be honest, I hadn’t felt like facing him at all. Not after the things we’d last said to each other.
Gray’s affable expression had faded the moment he’d seen me. But he hadn’t turned and run off to get an axe, so there was that to be thankful for.
And now that he is here, his big, strong body offering me support—literally, because I can only lean against him and pray that the pounding in my head will soon end—I sigh with relief. He is here. I don’t care about the phone sex. Or anything other than his presence making me feel better.
His chest rumbles when he speaks. “You really do look awful.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, too achy to put any emphasis behind it. “I feel bad.” Now that came out like a pitiful pout.
Gray utters a short laugh. “Yeah, I’d say that you do.” Looking fresh and hot and way too healthy for my taste, he rests his cool hand on my forehead. “Jesus, baby, you’re burning up.”
“That’s because I have a fever. And I’ll try to ignore that you called me baby. Do I look like I need diapers?”
“And I see we’re a grumpy patient as well.”
At the very least, sickness is an excellent defense against any post-phone-sex awkwardness.
Gray tries to take my hand and lead me toward my room when the haze fully lifts from my brain. Instantly, I lurch back so he can’t touch me.