by Brock, V. L.
And try as I might, I can’t quell the growing derisive whisper in my mind, the one that provokes angst and mistrust.
Ruffling, scuffling, heavy strained breaths…Hayden, boy; I don’t even need to sow those seeds. I wonder who he is. Who is the mystery man pressing her into her mattress; the man who’s rolling hips was responsible for her laborious breaths?
“What are you doing?” my voice trembles and loiters in my throat; my body is thrashed by the rush of adrenaline and devastation as Samantha’s squeaky, breathy response is reiterated in my mind.
Does she do this often when you spend nights apart? That means there must be at least six, maybe eight cocks that have graced your darling, Samantha. Well, she needs a real man on occasion, smoothing his dark, oily hair that lies plastered to his head, his lips curl and black circled eyes widen with spine-chilling effect.
“I was…oh, God this is embarrassing.”
Seething, I pull away from the leather headboard and perch myself onto the edge of the bed, setting my feet firmly on the floor. “For the love of God, Samantha, don’t make me have to come to you and find out for myself. I mean it, what the fuck were you doing?”
“I was thinking of you in that black silk shirt you wore on Thanksgiving,” she murmurs seeming somewhat discomfited.
“Huh?”
“Oh, for God sake, Hayden––I was masturbating,” she gushes and I can’t restrain my chuckle of relief as I hang my head. “Don’t tell me you honestly thought I was…” she hums wounded and offended, yet she maintains an appeasing tone.
“It’s not me that thought it, beautiful; it’s the narking person that I’m trying to evict from my mind. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I rang so late, I just needed to hear your voice. I’ll let you sleep. Goodnight, beautiful. I love you.”
“Wait,” she calls, effectively ceasing my intention of ending the call. “You interrupted me, Hayden. The least you could do is stay and…”
Oh, no. She can’t possibly be suggesting…
“Samantha, in my thirty-one years, you are the third person I have had sex with and I was nervous about that. Phone sex? I don’t do that…I wouldn’t know where to start.” I sense that familiar knot of unease forming in the pit of my stomach.
“I’ll tell you a secret…I haven’t either. But so what, Hayden, it’s something new. If we fuck it up, then we can look back on this in fifty years’ time and laugh about it.”
Smiling through sheer embarrassment, I push myself back against the bedhead and cross my legs at the ankles. Feeling both doubtful yet swayed, I sigh under the influence of her voice.
“So, shall I wear the lilac negligée you bought for me in New York?” she alludes in her low and velvet-soft tone, then mutely awaits my answer.
Throwing my head back heavily against the board behind me, I close my eyes and remember the way the silk clung to her body, skimming over her curves, the way her breasts sat perfectly in the laced-cups tantalizing me with the visible darkened hue of her nipples.
Ultimately finding the ability to speak through the inducement of my visual, I mutter “Yes,” my sexual needs betrayed within the low, husky tenor of my voice.
“Do you remember how it felt, Hayden, to feel the silk between your fingers as you caressed my body through it?”
The air hisses through my teeth and catches in my throat as her voice affords me with recollections of an array of sensations: my hand floating up and over the diaphanous material that screened her delectable body, dipping under the risqué slit that practically graced her hip bone, and the way the floral-laced gauze grazed my tongue as I licked the peaking flesh and drew her nipple into my mouth while still in its containment.
Detecting a straining in my hips and crotch, I force a swallow. “I remember.”
And then, we’re graced with an elephant in the room as silence invades, an undisturbed silence, which neither of us has the confidence to obliterate in our phone sex impasse.
“Um…Hayden?” Samantha whispers with profound diffidence. “I’m not sure what to say next.”
Unthinking, I release an expected chuckle. But immediately regret my insolence upon hearing Samantha’s affronted gasp reverberating down the handset.
“Baby, I’m sorry,” I apologize.
“Baby? I like that. The way you said it makes my body tingle.”
Quietness lays thick, heavy and stifling on the phone line once more, but is soon broken as a rich exhale leaves her chest and travels down the speaker as she clears her throat.
“I liked the way you slipped your hand up the length of my leg and sunk your fingers into the soft flesh of my behind,” she breathes coquettishly.
Shutting my eyes, I trace the waistband of my shorts, relishing the visual that she incites alongside her seductive, breathy narration. I had no idea that hearing ones softly spoken, grating voice could arouse me so fucking much.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m tracing my inner thigh with my fingertips. What are you doing?” she quizzes, losing any remnant of innocence that was only a moment ago, weaved through her seducing tone.
“Fighting not to sink my hand into my shorts,” I groan bursting with impatience.
“Do it. Pretend it’s my hand toying with your waistband before slipping under it.”
I acquiesce and lower my hand inside the material.
Overhearing a muffled plucking noise, Samantha hisses painfully.
“Are you, okay?”
“Hold on, I’m trying to get my bra off,” she reprises.
I wait patiently for her to retrieve the handset, although my fingertips throb and ache at the overriding stillness on the opposite end of the line. Her breath mitigates the pine and the moment burns again.
“I’m touching my breasts, so soft and supple…” her enriched, sultry voice lingers over the connection. “My nipples are so hard. Are you hard for me, Hayden?”
“God yes, I’m always hard for you, Samantha,” I respond without a nuance of hesitation.
I relax further, listening to the depths of her fluctuating breaths and picture her teeth biting and scraping at that lower, delicious pink lip as she listens to my voice and soft pants, seducing her senses, not just her body. I wrap my hand around my straining length and begin stroking myself at a pleasurable pace while continuing to heed to my lovers voice.
“Good. What would you do to me if I was with you now?”
“I’d have you stood in front of me baby, but facing away. I’d snake my arms around your waist and take your pussy in my hand.”
“Oh, God yes…tell me more,” she breathes heavily down the speaker, followed by a moan so guttural that my cock strains harder against my palm.
I seal my eyes. “I’d…slowly stroke your pussy lips before teasing your clit in the way you love. Your back would arch as I kiss your neck and almost make you come. Then I’d slide my finger into your tight, wet cunt.” I’m rewarded with a cry that has me silently contemplating if Jessie can hear Samantha’s private activities.
Not wanting to lose the rhythm of my confidence, I continue.
“Slip a finger inside of yourself, baby. Tell me how you feel.”
“Ah…” I hear her tipping her head back and envision her tilting her pelvis upward to meet her hand. “God, Hayden, I’m so wet for you right now. I wish you were lying beside me. I wish it was you inside me and not just my fingers,” she purrs. “You always reach places I can’t.”
My strenuous gasps are shadowed by her soft moans and low groans. Fisting my cock, I pull back tirelessly, raising my hips to push past my forceful grip.
“Baby, you’re killing me. You’re getting me so close; I wish I was pouring myself into you, feeling your tight pussy clenching around my cock, milking me dry.”
“Oh, fuck, Hayden…please, keep talking…” she pleads wildly amidst pleasurable whimpers. But the desperation laced in her sultry voice, and the sounds of her cries, added with the visual of her sinking her teeth into her lip
while writhing beneath her own hand, has me undone.
Moaning as I grind incessantly into my palm, my breath catches. “Fuck baby…I’m going to explode. Fuck…fuck…fuck,” I cry out, my toes curling with locking force, my body tenses and trembles as I come heated and powerful over my stomach and in my hand, while the inveigling sound of Samantha climaxing caresses my ear and cheek.
Silent for a moment while we regulate our inhalations, a soft chuckle of approval leaves her throat.
“Wow…that was intense.”
“I can’t believe we actually just did that,” I mutter in astonishment, my head resting against the leather-sheathed board behind me, grinning inanely.
“There’s nothing wrong with experimenting, honey. I think we can both agree, that in fifty years’ time, we will not be laughing about this,” she giggles.
“I think if we talk about this in fifty years’ time, one of us will end up with a broken hip.” We both laugh, feeling relaxed and satisfied––not only because of our release, but through the exploration of a new stage in our relationship. The ungainliness and self-doubting that loitered between us, now an overcome hurdle…like everything else that both Samantha and I have had to confront.
“You were amazing, baby,” I whisper.
“Oh, Hayden. The way you say that word…” she sighs. “You’ll start me off again. I love you…so much.” Her voice is scarcely a whisper in the darkness of night, and although she isn’t here with me, I see her eyes welling with moisture the way they always do when she declares the profundity of her love.
“I love you, too, Samantha. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, beautiful.”
“Goodnight, honey.”
As the line loses life, I can’t help but give way to a face-splitting grin and head for the second shower of the night.
I’m momentarily startled when the wreath adorning Samantha’s apartment door bounces off its surface, and shakes violently as the door is abruptly swung open. A familiar pair of forest, green eyes stares back at me, before pulling my into a friendly embrace.
“Coffee?” she offers as she pulls away and sashays across the area to the kitchen. Her tucked ponytail bounces with every skip she takes.
“Is it even necessary to ask anymore, Jess?” I reply flippant.
Following the buoyant brunet to the breakfast hatch, I slip onto the left stool. Even though she looks like she has been transported back to the 80’s, with her relaxed ensemble of black leggings, the bright pink leg-warmers, and long-sleeved, oversized jumper, which hangs off her left shoulder, exposing the black strap of her bra, she somehow manages to pull it off.
I sip at my coffee whilst making small talk about whether or not there is a correct time on decorating for the Holidays. Mom and Dad were always excessive; up they went on the first of December, with the eight-foot tree and lights––both inside and outside, garlands sweeping up the elaborate staircase, not to mention the giant Santa that welcomed you as you entered the house. It was understandable when I was a child, but as I grew older, with every passing year, it infuriated me more and more.
“It doesn’t matter if it is the first, the fourth, or the twenty-fourth; better late than never.” I sip at the cooling, onyx liquid.
“I’m definitely with you on that one, honey,” the low, rasping sound of Samantha’s voice has every follicle standing to attention, as she emerges from the corridor behind me. Strolling passed the dinning-room table she enfolds her arms around my waist, and burrows her face into my neck.
Enthralled, I close my eyes, and inhale her sweet scent, and allow the heat of her minty breath to tickle at the surface of my neck.
“Always better late,”––she places a feather-soft kiss just below my ear––“than never.”
Spinning myself around on the slippery surface of the stool, I pull her into the vacant space between my legs and devour her with a lush, wet kiss. My hands roam possessive over her body, from the nape of her neck, down her back, around to her hips, and then ending their voyage upon her buttocks.
I sink my thumbs into the back pockets of her ash-gray, skinny-fitted pants, while the rest of my fingers claw their way into the pliant flesh, as I draw her hips closer to my body.
“Get a room,” Jess bellows, airily from beyond the bar.
Through the reluctance of pulling away from Samantha’s full, rose-pink lips, I give way to an inward sigh. Still she smiles down at me, briefly wrinkling the bridge of her nose in an adorable, yet suggestive twitch––a motion that never fails to send my blood raging; Samantha’s unspoken signal to ‘come-and-get-it’. Every single time, all of my thoughts melt into a huge pool of lustful, animalistic need. The most innocent of conceptions blend themselves into a deepening passion, which denies me any rational thought.
Her taupe, bat-winged, cashmere sweater clings to her luscious body. The elongated, stretchy section at the bottom of the sweater hugs her hips, allowing the slight looseness of the material to fall, but still displays her figure. A large, silver, floral engraved locket rests undisturbed between the fullest part of her D-cup breasts, and her lengthy, auburn mane is twisted and clipped up high, the tips fluttering over the top of the hair-pin.
“What?” she shrieks. “Don’t you know that it is rude to stare?”
I shake my head slowly in admiration for my woman. My arms tense around her body as I suppress the growing urge to squeeze her so fucking hard, to show her physically how much she means to me emotionally.
“My God, Samantha, you have no idea the extent of my love, want and need for your body, mind and soul reaches. It’s limitless,” I declare through clenched-teeth, every syllable that passes my lips intensified with ardor.
“Yes, I do, Hayden,” she nods gently and leans in; her lips are barely an inch away from my ear, “Because you do it to me.”
Pulling away, she frames my face with her hands. She tips my head back and bends to set a lingering kiss upon my lips.
“I love you, Hayden Wentworth,” she whispers on an outward breath, the pads of her thumbs skimming over the stubble of my jawline.
“And I love you, Samantha Kennedy. I am truly, madly, deeply in love with you,” I rasp, losing myself in her pale, irresistible eyes.
“I love that song.” A voice from behind me snaps us out of our intimate moment, followed by the scrunching of a packet of potato chips.
Samantha slips out of my clutches. “That is our cue to make like a tree, and leave.”
I remain glued to my spot, my vision fixated as she strides to the table in the center of the room in her matching ash-gray platform pumps while she retrieves her large, maroon, over the shoulder bag.
“Feel free to stay, honey,” she swings the bag over her shoulder and crosses her arms across her middle. “Do you know sign language?”
Frowning, I cock my head dubious, “Sign language?”
She nods. “Yes, because you won’t have any sense of hearing once you have befallen victim to Jessie’s rendition of Savage Garden––”
“Hey––” Jessie feigns outrage, but after a beat accedes and offers a small smirk. “But because I like you, Hayden, I will tone it down and leave out the blood-curdling high notes.” She dips her hand into the giant bag of chips and places the contents in her mouth.
“Thanks, Jess, but I think I will follow suit with Sam and not take my chances. It’s hard to go to court and hear if the judge overrules me if I can’t hear. So we will leave you to your own devices.”
I slap my hands on my thighs before pushing myself from the stool, and lock my hand with Samantha.
“Aw, that’s a shame. I was hoping for a backing singer.”
I hastily whip my line of focus onto Jessie, who stands smirking, her eyes glinting mischievously.
“You told her?” I mutter feigning a sullen tone, turning my gazing back onto Samantha.
She goes for nonchalance and studies the ceiling before her gaze finally falls on me, her eyes dancing with wry amusement.
�
�That you serenaded her on Fifth Avenue? Nope, she didn’t tell me anything,” Jessie teases. And as I hear her fill her mouth with more chips, I idly wonder if there is anything else Samantha has told Jessie…private things.
“You are so going to pay for that, Samantha Kennedy.”
“Hmm…” she furrows her brow, “see that sounded more like a promise, than a threat, Mr. Wentworth,” she grins.
Gazing deeply into her eyes, my mouth curls into a devious, calculating smirk, one that screams of lust and dark insinuations. “Who said I meant it as a threat?”
“And on that note,” the bubbly brunet interjects, “scoot, scram, vamoose, get out of here you love sick teenagers.” The next thing I see is an unopened pack of potato chips being hurled through the air in our direction.
“Okay, we’re out of here. Enjoy your time with Rusty,” Sam giggles, pointing towards her roommate’s choice of snack before opening the apartment door.
Just before I step over the threshold, I hear my name being whinged.
I peek back to the breakfast bar. “Yes, Jess?”
Pointing and pouting like a brooding child, she mutters, “Can you pass me back my chips please?”
With unmasked mirth, I snigger and shake my head before bending to retrieve the unopened packet.
“Women,” I mutter, hurling them at the beaming woman sat on the countertop.
“Thanks, sweetie.”
SEVENTEEN
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SAMANTHA
My strenuous breathing is no match for Hayden’s as we set the bound, six-foot spruce down onto the hardwood flooring of the apartment, and flick the table lamp switch.
Not being overly enthusiastic about the hazardous, nuisance of falling needles, which somehow manage to get just about everywhere, Jessie and I have always taken the easy road, and accommodate an artificial tree––no messes, we can use it year after year, we don’t have to worry about it dying, and it comes in a box, so you don’t have to worry about the needles stabbing through your cashmere sweater or the dirt transferring onto your clothing.