Yes.
Tell me how wet you are for me.
So freaking wet. My toy just slid in so easily.
You brought your toy with you? Wishing it was me?
I’d rather it be you. I’ve thought about you nonstop. I touched myself to the thought of you last night and came with your name on my lips.
Fuck, you’re driving me crazy.
Tell me what you’d do if you had me on your lap.
I’d start by gripping your hips and grinding you on top of me. I’d slide you up and down my shaft, coating it in your juices.
Play with your clit, Snow Angel. I want your pussy to throb as much as my dick is right now.
I am. I’m imagining it’s you who’s touching me. Your fingers, not mine.
Damn straight. It’s me touching you right now.
And in a couple of minutes, I really will be.
As soon as the stoplight I’m sitting at turns green, I peel away, my tires skidding against the pavement when I step on the gas. I’m about to turn into Zee’s apartment complex, when another text comes through from her.
It’s another photo, and this time it’s of her lower body, the bubbles placed so it doesn’t show much, but I can clearly see her hand disappearing under the water and between her legs.
I take the first parking spot I can find and rip the keys from the ignition, practically running into her building. Jamming my finger into the elevator’s call button, I tap my foot impatiently as my fingers fly over my phone's touch-screen keyboard.
You’re so sexy. If I was there, I’d rip you from that bathtub and you’d be sitting on my face, dripping wet as you ride it.
I’m close, Miller.
The elevator pings, and I rush inside, slamming my finger against the button for her floor’s level, then again on the button to close the doors.
Don’t you dare come yet.
Are you touching yourself while you think about me?
Staring up at the numbers as they ascend, I mutter under my breath. “C’mon, stupid elevator, go faster.”
I’d rather be touching you.
When the doors open, I fly out of them and am in front of Zee’s door in a flash, rapping my knuckles across the white-painted wood.
My heart gallops inside my chest as I wait to hear her footsteps approach the door. With my head practically pressed against it, I listen, hearing nothing inside of her apartment as I wait.
Every fiber of my being itches to break the door down to get in there with her, but I keep waiting, trying to urge myself to calm down. I’m so wound up, I feel like I might spontaneously combust on her doorstep if I don’t have her in my arms soon.
In my hand, my phone vibrates, alerting me of another incoming message.
So come touch me then.
Practically snapping my phone from how tightly I squeeze it as I read her message, I shove it into my pocket and rap my knuckles against the door again, much louder this time.
My forehead knocks into the wood as I groan with frustration, still not hearing any signs of movement in her apartment after a few moments.
Slapping my open palm against the door, I growl, “Open the door, Elizabeth.”
