“Grab my buddy Mr. Potato Head.”
“What?” I frown. “Not a chance. I’m not masturbating with a children’s toy.”
“What kind of animal do you take me for, Sweet Potato?” He feigns offense.
I level him with a look that screams, Really?
“Point taken,” he concedes. “Still…grab my replacement.”
“Why?”
“I want you to use him to prop up your phone. You’re gonna need two hands for what I have in mind.”
Oh, boy.
I grab Mr. Potato Head from my nightstand, but before I put him on the pillow, I remove his eyes in an effort to spare his virtue.
“Very good,” Jase says after I have the toy arranged as a makeshift phone stand. “Lie back and let me put all the things I’ve learned from being a romance junkie to work.”
Swallowing down my nerves, I do as I’m told. Goose bumps cover my skin, at odds with the lust burning through my veins.
“Place your hands on your shoulders.”
That is not where I thought he would start, but I follow his directions.
“Skim the tips of your fingers down the length of your body, slowly.” I begin to do as instructed, but he stops me. “Lighter. Keep your touch so it’s like you’re barely making contact with your skin.”
The new featherlight pressure only heightens every sensation.
“Much better. Keep going.”
My eyes flutter closed as I travel over the swell of my breasts, down the slope of my stomach, stopping once I hit the cotton of my sleep pants then reversing the path.
“Using the same light touch, draw circles around your breasts, starting on the outside, making the circles smaller and smaller until you hit your areolas.”
Circle, circle.
“Brush your nipples with your thumbs and cup your tits, hold them up to the camera.”
I twist to the side, the weight of my breasts filling my palms.
“God, you have the prettiest tits I’ve ever seen,” he growls. “They’d be in my mouth if I were there.”
Oh that filthy mouth of his—a filthy mouth with a tongue ring.
“Pinch your nipples.”
My thumbs and forefingers close around my nipples and pleasure shoots straight to my clit.
“Now twist.”
“Jase,” I cry.
“That’s it, baby. Flatten your hands over them and squeeze.”
Pinch.
Twist.
Squeeze.
“Shit, baby. I’ve never been jealous of a pair of hands before.”
“Ja—Jase, touch yourself.”
“Oh, baby. Your wish is my command.”
I force my eyes open, not wanting to miss my chance to watch.
The ink on his inner biceps winks at me as his fingers splay over each pack of his abdominals. Is it wrong to want to lick him? Because I really, really want to lick him.
Unlike me, there’s zero hesitation in his actions.
His hands slip under the band of his sweatpants, pushing them down and pulling himself out.
He’s hard. And big—really big. Like how does he expect it to fit big.
I swallow at the sight.
The mushroom tip is practically purple, glistening with arousal.
His hand moves on his shaft.
Up then down.
“Touch yourself, baby.”
“I—I am.”
“No.” The veins in his neck strain, his head moving side to side. “Put your hand inside your panties.”
Another swallow and my hand is on the move again.
One finger breaches the band on my pants, then a second. Soon enough my hand is slipping beneath the lace of my panties, the wetness obvious as the fabric lifts.
“What do you feel?”
“What?”
“Tell me what you feel. Are you hot? Swollen? Wet? Is your clit pulsing under your finger?”
Yes, yes, yes, and all of the above.
“I’m right, aren’t I? I can see it on your face. You’re flushed, and the prettiest pink is traveling down your neck and over your breasts.”
What is he doing to me?
“Use your forefinger and middle finger and alternate them.”
Forefinger. Middle finger.
Forefinger. Middle finger.
“That’s it, baby. Back and forth. Back and forth. Keep the rhythm steady.”
I’m embarrassingly close to coming.
“No, baby. Eyes on me,” he instructs when my eyes start to close again.
Thank god I listened because his hand is on the move again.
Up. Down.
In smooth, sure strokes, he works his length.
“Lower your hand and slip those fingers inside.”
“Jase.”
“Don’t be embarrassed, baby. If I can’t be there with you, I need you to fill the space for me. Do it. Let your wetness ease your entry.”
I do.
“Oh god.”
“Yeah, that’s it. It’s nice, right? God I bet you’re tight.”
“Jason.”
“Pump your fingers in and out. Don’t stop until you come.”
The cliff is right there, waiting for me to fall.
“Jase.”
“I know, baby. I’m right there with you.”
If the speed of his strokes are anything to go by, he is.
Our movements sync.
Up and down for him. In and out for me.
Up.
Down.
In.
Out.
“Jas—”
I bury my face in my pillow to muffle my cries as I hear him roar.
I have no idea how long I lie there, hand in my pants, lungs heaving as I try to recover.
If he can make me come like this over the phone, how the hell am I going to survive him in person?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE BIG HAMMER: *picture of Mrs. Potato Head with a hand over her face.*
THE BIG HAMMER: I think we may have scared Mrs. PH last night.
BROADWAY BABY: I told you they are children’s toys. Just because the box says suitable for children ages 2 and up doesn’t mean they should be hanging out with people in their 20s. At least not the way we used them.
THE BIG HAMMER: I don’t know. I think our way of using them was way more imaginative than anything I came up with as a kid.
BROADWAY BABY: WHEN you were a kid? I know LEGALLY you’re an adult, but mentally…
THE BIG HAMMER: Ouch, Sweet Potato *knife emoji*
BROADWAY BABY: *GIF of chimp playing the piano with the caption “DRAMATIC MUSIC!”*
THE BIG HAMMER: I miss you.
BROADWAY BABY: Miss you too *kissing emoji*
I reach for the pitcher of beer Zoey placed on the table to refill my cup. Ella took the night off and we decided to make the most of it watching the NHL All-Star Skills Competition at The Sin Bin. Much to their disappointment, I’m not wearing a Storm shirt like them.
I may have given in and worn Jase’s jersey to the game, but my heart belongs to the Bruisers. Still, in an effort to be a supportive girlfriend, I am wearing the shirt Jase gave me the other night and sent him a picture.