Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Instead of that last bit, he sighs happily, a weight seemingly lifted from him. “Thanks, Joy.”
“No problem, Dalton. Now show me what you’re working with.”
He laughs, but then meets my eyes through the screen. “That’s the first time you’ve called me that.”
I freeze. He’s right. I never call him by his first name. He’s Days or Dalton Days or the Moose goalie. “Is that okay? I mean, I can try to stick to Mr. Days if you’d prefer some formality, but it seems a bit late in the game for that when I know the tattoo on your left cum gutter is your own jersey number, which is ego on an entirely new level.”
Yeah, I’ve seen several of his tattoos at this point—all over his chest, his arms, and his hips. There are others I haven’t seen, and probably never will, but I definitely gave him hell for having his own jersey number, telling him that it was the equivalent of tattooing your own name by your penis. He was less than amused at my analogy.
“My what?” he says.
“Cum gutter.” I point to them on the screen as if he can tell where I’m indicating. “You know, Adonis belt, V lines, dick framers. The grooves that make girls stupid.”
His grin is pure sex. “You like those?” He holds the phone back, running his hand down his six-pack to the indentation I’m talking about.
I swallow hard. He looks so good, and I’m starting to hate him incrementally less.
In fact, when we actually talk, I enjoy our conversations, and the regular orgasms that come from masturbating after every time I see his penis don’t hurt. Or at least they don’t hurt in a bad way.
Is that an unhealthy habit to get into? Absolutely. But I can’t help it. He’s beautiful and sexy, and it’s been a while since I’ve had sex with someone other than Woody.
“They’re . . . fine. I mean, if you’re into that sort of thing,” I stammer. I could fry an egg with the heat coming off my cheeks, and I can see in the tiny image of myself on the screen exactly how pink they’re turning.
“I think I like you calling me Dalton,” he says, his voice husky in a way that sends shivers down my spine.
I can’t see his hand. He’s dropped it out of the camera’s view, but I know he’s touching himself.
“Let me see.” I’ve said those three words to him before, and seen him several times at this point, but this time feels different. It feels like something well beyond a superstition. This is . . . personal.
He angles the camera down, his rock-hard cock filling the screen in a super-close-up that makes me gasp, but then he adjusts and I can see his shaft laying against his abs, and up his chest to his face. His eyes are dark and half-closed as he stares down at the camera, stroking his hand up and down his length slowly.
“If seeing it is good luck, what do you think this is?” I whisper, not sure what I’m saying.
He groans, gripping himself tight. Pre-come leaks from his head and I watch, utterly captivated by him. He slips his hand over his crown, gently pulling on the piercing there, and I lick my lips.
“Does that hurt?”
“No, feels good,” he moans. “Are you touching yourself too?”
He knows I am.
I slipped my hand beneath my pajama shorts when I saw him start to jack off and now my breathing is too fast, and though I’m holding back noises of pleasure as I circle my clit with my fingers, I’m sure he can hear how wet I am. I can’t stop the sounds of my pussy sucking my fingers as I plunge them inside myself, timing the thrusts with Dalton’s strokes down his cock.
I nod.
“Let me see,” he demands, but I shake my head. He groans in disappointment but doesn’t stop stroking. “Are you close?”
“Yesss.” My brow is furrowed, my toes are curling, and I can feel everything in my body pulling to a central point behind my clit.
“Fuck. Let me hear you at least. Say my name,” he orders roughly.
I move faster, fucking myself with my fingers, my eyes locked on his hand moving up and down, up and down, and that shiny silver ring moving with every stroke. And I explode.
“Dalton—” I cry.
His neck muscles strain and his bicep goes hard, both highlighted in the sharp relief of the hotel’s bedside lamp.
“Fuck. Fuck. Joy.” His answering shout is guttural and groaned as jets of cum violently shoot from his cock, covering his abs as he reflexively curls in on himself.
Both panting, we come back to ourselves, and meet each other’s eyes. The confusion mixed with bliss in his is likely mirrored in my own.
Wow!
What did we do?
How soon can we do it again?