“Ooh. Very sexy,” I whisper. “Are you still wearing your captain’s uniform?”
“Yes,” he answers. “I was thinking about taking it off, let my body breathe… my cock’s been missing you.”
The jolt of arousal that rushes to me is enough to make me suddenly aware of the situation. “Wow,” I say, clearing my throat. “That was a bit sudden.”
“Hey, thinking about you really does turn me on. And after a cross-continental flight where I’ve got to bat off the persistent advances of my chief stewardess and my chief passenger, I deserve a bit of a rest.”
“Heh, a… layover,” I quip.
Jagger murmurs his appreciation for my pun. “Clever girl. Clever and sexy girl. God, I’ve been craving your body all day today. You know, the next time I see you, you’re not keeping your dress on. I want to see those gorgeous breasts of yours. I want to cup them in my hand. Hell, I want to suck on them and watch your reaction.”
I immediately begin biting my lip, feeling arousal lap across my body. It’s not just the words he’s saying… it’s also the way he’s saying them. He’s got such a masculine voice, a perfectly composed way of saying things.
An alpha male in every way.
“So… uh…” I try to respond.
“There’s a sound stuck in my head, and that’s the way you scream when I give you an orgasm,” Jagger continues. I can hear heavy breathing.
“Oh God. Captain, are you jerking off right now?”
“I wasn’t, but I am now,” he says.
“You’re such a creep,” I say. Then I quickly add, “I’m just kidding. You’re not. A creep, that is. But that might entirely be because you’re hot enough to get a pass on that.”
Yep, I have officially had enough to drink.
I want to play along with him, but my mind is all airy and floating from the drink, and honestly… I’m not so drunk that I can’t tell he’s calling me basically just for phone sex.
The moans he blows into the phone are hot as hell, though.
“Creep,” I repeat.
“I can stop,” he says, quickly serious.
“I’m just pointing out the obvious. How you choose to respond to that is entirely up to you. I’m not really interested in, uh, playing with myself on a phone call. That’s not really my thing. Cute, though. Do you do this a lot? Plenty of long-distance flings?” I ask. “Oh God. Is it worse than that? Are you on a desert island with no women to have sex with, is that why you’re stroking your cock thinking about me?”
Then I giggle.
Jagger, to his credit, is not annoyed at all. “Fine, fine. But I want to keep you on the phone.”
“Why?” I ask, immediately suspicious.
“What?” he responds, surprised by the way I snapped at him. “I like the sound of your voice. And I did work this hard to get on the phone with you, after all.”
“Oh.”
“What’s ‘oh’ supposed to mean?” he asks.
“Just that,” I shrug. “This is nice. Talking. It’s also… weird. Don’t you ever find that most people like to text instead? I could be emoji-ing the crap out of you right now, Jagger.”
He laughs. “I’d rather hear your laugh than see you send me the poop emoji.”
“You had to go there, didn’t you?” I joke. “Okay, I’m sorry. You wanted to… talk. About anything in particular, or just… talk?”
“Just talk,” he says. “Tell me about your day or something. Tell me what’s been on your mind.”
“A lot, and it’s all very boring,” I counter. No, I’ve already spent enough time talking about Helen for a day. I don’t need to turn Jagger off so heavily that he stays on the opposite end of the country from me forever.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jagger says, with his measured voice. “You’re an exciting girl. You should be having adventures. All the time.”
“Adventures that involve being flown around in a private plane, maybe?” I suggest.
“Ha, exactly that,” he says, chuckling along. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Just don’t laugh, okay?”
“If it’s phone sex again, I’m not interested.”
Jagger assures me that’s not the case. “I can tell you a story. I’m a pretty good storyteller.”
“Fiction or nonfiction?” I ask. Intriguing. I wasn’t expecting that.
“A love story, a good one, too,” he says. “If it keeps you on the phone. If it doesn’t, you can rush off a ‘bye’ and hang up, and I’ll get to enjoy an evening with my left and right hands.”
Oh boy, now I’m suddenly reminded about just how well-endowed Jagger is. Both his hands. And both of mine, probably…
“A love story,” I consider. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but it sounds like something a little over your head — definitely out of your league. What does a flyboy like you know about romance?”
“Hey, I’m plenty romantic,” he answers. “Trust me. I can tell you a fucking love story. If you’re willing to listen.”
“Challenged, are we?” I tease him.
“Rising to a challenge. Now, are you going to be a good girl and listen?”
SIX
NCE UPON a time,” I began to tell her the story.
“Of course it’s a once upon a time kind of story,” Alexa giggles. She sounds so fucking cute.
“A guy met a girl in Barcelona. Pretty girl. Had her head stuck on right, looked killer in a dress, hung around parties that bored her very quickly,” I began, riffing away.
“Sounds a little familiar.”
“Shhh. Listen. So, this guy, his habit was to visit a little cafe in Barcelona. Sipped his coffee. Short espresso, black with just one sugar. He’d sit, listen to friends chatter along in rapid-fire Spanish. Watched beautiful women strut around with shopping bags from all the fanciest brands. Prada and Versace and Givenchy, you get the picture.
“The cafe was around the corner from a dreamy museum, a quaint little place about Spanish architecture and art in the time of the dictatorship — but that’s me getting ahead of the story. Let’s see. The woman’s walking past his table. Stunning green eyes and a dress, elegant enough to go to the opera, slinky enough to get her arrested, and she trips. So he’s up in a swift movement and he catches her.
“He’s all too happy to help this woman. There’s something about her that he’s intrigued by. Not just her beauty. He’s never been dazzled by a beauty like this, and they end up staying at the cafe. They take a coffee together. Coffee drifts on into lunch, and then, when the whole city shuts down for the afternoon siesta, the couple head over to the museum.
“At the museum, she tells him about her life. She just divorced her awful husband this morning. The guy decides, shit, this is my chance. Not to swoop in on her, but to make her day. Just make a good person smile. And if things progress further… that’s a bonus, you know?”
“Yeah,” Alexa answers. Her voice is a little distant. Distracted.
“After the museum, having admired all the paintings and sculptures and photographs, they walk over to a bridge. It’s got all those love locks attached to the sides of the bridge. It sags, even, from the weight of all the love locks. He points them out to her, and she dismisses them. ‘I can no longer believe in love,’ she announces.
“Now that sounds real strong to him, so the guy decides there and then that it’s going to be his mission to change her mind. He’ll make her believe in love again, no matter what it takes.
“So he wines and dines her. After a long and sensual evening, she lets him take her back to his apartment. He slides her out of the gorgeous sheath of a dress, he kisses her all over, holds her in his arms and he fucks her brains out.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry, this is supposed to be a love story — they have absolutely magical, incredible, explosive sex.”
I can hear Alexa laugh, a laugh that quickly recedes so she can focus her attention on my story. This is great.
“After he makes her cum half a dozen times, he sits her
up, with moonlight streaming through the windows, and he asks her… do you believe now?
“She pauses. ‘I’m not sure yet,’ she says. She then adds, she’ll come back tomorrow. And if he’s still there, she’ll decide then.
“So the next day comes, and of course he’s there, he’s a man on a mission. They meet, they talk, they laugh, they kiss, they have sex again. It’s better than the first time, even. Deeper. More intimate.”
Alexa waits until I end my sentence to interject. “And I assume he asks her if she believes in love?”
“Correctomundo, beautiful,” I confirm. “And for a second time, she’s not sure, she’s all… ‘I’ll come back tomorrow, I’ll know then.’ What do you know, the next day, he’s waiting for her… and she never shows up.
“Hell, he waits a fourth, then fifth day. He can’t wait any longer, because he’s got to leave. He doesn’t stay at places long, you see. So he’s bummed like mad. He really liked her. And she just… stood him up. But then as he’s about to leave, he sees her. There she is, wearing a beige trench coat and probably nothing underneath, smiling as she sees his face light up.
“He rushes to her, and they kiss, and without him prompting, she tells him she believes in love again. But you know what? They kiss again, and she repeats her newfound knowledge, and then she walks off. Walks right into the night. He just watches her go, awe rising in his heart.
“He never sees her again. But he knows that he did something special. He made her believe in love again.”
SEVEN
’M MESMERIZED BY the way he tells the story. He knows how to shape a story the way he knows how to touch a woman.
“He made her believe in love again.”
Jagger ends his story, and I relax, stretching myself in bed.
“Huh,” I whisper, acknowledging the end of the story. “Is that it? That’s your love story?”
That’s just me pushing his buttons. Of course I liked his story — I wasn’t expecting I’d like it, but there was something incredibly personal about the story he just shared with me, so naturally I found myself incredibly drawn to it.
Jagger laughs. “Goddamn, and here I thought I rose to your challenge. Look, you put me on the spot, that’s what I had! I’m a pilot, not Shakespeare.”
“Shakespeare’s love stories were about horny thirteen year olds who killed themselves,” I laugh. “I like yours a lot more. No, I’m serious. I’m impressed. That was a very sweet story. Do you write, is that your secret? A sensitive side to our Captain?”
“Hah,” Jagger responds. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. My memoirs, to be published upon my death.”
“I’m seriously hoping you’re a better pilot than that.”
I love the way he laughs — there’s something unrestrained about the way his laugh just makes every other sound seem warmer, too. “Okay,” he says. “Now you’re just testing me.”
“Test me soon, please,” I reply. “When are you back in town? I’m actually seriously disappointed to have misinterpreted you when you said you’d call me when you land.”
“Booty call you when I land?” he suggests.
“With that story of yours, let’s just say I would not be opposed to experiencing a taste of the sort of sex Barcelona Woman got to have.”
“She only had it twice,” Jagger points out. “If you play your cards right, you might get it way more than that.”
“Actually,” I tell him, “if I played my cards right the first time, I would’ve gotten it twice in a single night already.”
“Goddamn, I was not wrong when I said you were a clever girl.”
“So when are you back?”
“Two more days. Am I going to see you then?”
I smile. “We’ll see.”
Despite everything, Jagger keeps me on the phone, for what has got to be the longest phone call in the history of man. I shudder at the thought of what his phone bill is going to look like.
At least he’s not calling internationally, right?
This is sweet, though. I don’t think I’ve spent a whole night talking on the phone with someone, not since I was a teenager. And this is a whole lot more exciting than teenage dalliances.
“Permit me to return to my original topic of conversation,” Jagger eventually says.
“What was that, exactly?”
“How much I’m craving you,” he replies without hesitation. “How you turn me on, and make me hard… just by listening to your voice, even when you’re trying your hardest to behave on this phone call, cracking jokes and puns.”
“You’ve rumbled me. Damn,” I tell him.
“I mean it, Alexa. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re the kind of girl who really enjoys this sort of attention from a man like me… but you also just as much enjoy the act of pretending you don’t care. All polished and sophisticated, just like I saw you the first time.”
My lips purse immediately. I’m nervous. Sooner, rather than later, he’s going to find out that I’m not really this put-together socialite he assumes I am.
I’m literally in a t-shirt and panties right now. He probably imagines I go to sleep in nothing but Chanel Number Five.
“Ah, I’m not really all that,” I try to bat his attentions away.
“Of course you are,” he says. “Embrace it, Alexa. You’re red-hot, and I don’t find myself so intrigued by many people. I don’t mean that as a put-down to other women. It’s just that I really am craving you.”
“What does that mean, anyway? Like a physical, sexual-only form of missing me?”
Jagger considers his next few words. “It means my fingertips want nothing more than to be kneading your body, massaging you until you begin to relax, until you begin to moan, until your legs wrap around me. Until you breathe out softly and beg me for more.”
I’m so glad he can’t see me blush.
Phone sex isn’t my thing, yet I can’t explain away the hand that’s slowly inching its way down inside my panties. “Oh,” I moan.
“Exactly,” I hear him tell me.
He starts telling me all the things he wishes he could do to me right now, and what happens instead is that my body begins to go into that hypersensitive overdrive I instantly associate with how he made me feel, the lingering ache after our night together.
I’m enjoying this a little too much, as my fingers begin to find my slit, a rush of heat coming all over me.
“You’re terrible,” I moan to Jagger. “Look what you do to me.”
“I can’t look, beautiful,” he tells me. “All I can do is listen.”
So I make him listen. I touch myself, moaning softly into the phone, barely able to hear his own moans — he’s sharply decided to focus the attention on me, not putting me on the spot by having to deal with him as well.
We don’t even talk. I don’t have to talk dirty, although every so often Jagger shares a fantasy of his to me. I close my eyes, and lose myself to the pleasure.
Captain Charming (Tales of 1001 Flights) Page 6