“Hello?” My voice felt small, so I straightened on my bed, feeling like a teenager all over again like when you had a crush and would call them full of anxiety. Coen and I used to do that. We would call and talk for hours on end. We’d even fall asleep on the phone together, our landlines still connected when we woke.
“Hello, princess.” His honey-deep voice sent shivers down my spine. His voice oozed sex. I could listen to him read the dictionary or recipes and be satisfied.
Holy hell. He'd called me princess. That was Coen’s endearment for me, and it made my stomach quiver, imagining he sat on the other end.
“Hi,” I squeaked, unable to form and coherent thoughts.
“Are you nervous, princess?” I could imagine a smile as he asked. His fucking voice was so smooth.
If this didn’t go anywhere, could I proposition him for an audio audition?
“Yes.” My hushed whisper was barely audible.
“I love innocent little pets.” The timber of his voice made heat pool in my belly. Can someone really be this turned on by a voice?
Yes, yes, I could.
“I’m far from innocent,” I joked, feeling a little less nervous.
“Please tell me the ways,” he requested with a groan, making me melt.
Would it be completely horrible to masturbate while he listened? I giggled. Maybe he would too. He sounded aroused at the thought of me being naughty.
“I can imagine you wanting to touch yourself,” he mused. What was he, a mind reader?
It was easier being intimate over a phone. There was no room for judgment. He couldn’t see me or make me feel self-conscious about my body and the same for him. I could pretend he was the man of my dreams. Or, I could imagine Coen on the other end. If he were the caller, I’d be fine. I wanted him to be the voice, the sweet talker with smooth words and naughty thoughts.
“Tell me, princess, all the ways you like to be touched,” he begged.
I squirmed on my end, hearing his soft breathing on the other end. It couldn’t hurt to be open, to let it lose. He couldn’t see the way I squeezed my thighs, praying for friction.
“I love dirty talk.” My voice came out huskier than intended, a huskiness I didn’t know I had inside. “When a man trails kisses up my thighs…”
I trailed off, realizing this seemed whorish. At this point, I deserved to feel good without others coming to their own conclusions, right?
His groaning on the other end made me imagine Coen’s thick fingers playing with his erection, caressing his hardened rod. I smiled at the thought.
“Your voice is so fucking sexy,” he practically sang.
“I could say the same.”
“If I were there, I’d trail my tongue and lips across the apex of your thighs, teasing each sensitive area. I’d reach your hips and bite down on the tender flesh where your hip meets your stomach,” he growled. He fucking growled, and it was the hottest sound.
Coen. Pretend it is Coen and not a random stranger. My stomach hurt from the tension rising. I wanted his dirty talk to force myself to unwind. Coen shouldn’t have this power over me.
“Keep talking,” I murmured, needing his words.
“Are you wet for me, princess?”
I should be turned off, to run away from this, but I wasn’t. He made me feel desired, and it felt fantastic. Since Coen and I split, I craved to be wanted and yearned after.
“Yes,” I responded.
No shame lit me up like it once would have. It made me feel sexy, and that empowered me to touch myself.
“Are you hard for me?” I coaxed, taunting, “I want you to be.”
Disgust formed. I never did these kinds of things, but it felt so damn good. How could something be wrong and right? I’d never judge anyone for this, but I judged myself.
His moan tickled my senses, turning me on more. “Yes,” he responded, thickness in his voice. “I’m imagining all the things I want to do to you.”
My rubbing intensified as I let out a satisfying scream. “Yes!” I voiced out my pleasure.
“You sound so good, Rebel.” His ten-ton gravelly tone sending tingles throughout me.
Or it could have been the post-orgasmic haze.
“I’m coming for you, princess,” he said, the shuttering breaths burning me up. So sexy. I loved his voice, but I imagined the man I loved, not this random dude with the honey voice.
Knowing I gave a man pleasure only from a few words felt amazing and sick all at once. What would Coen think about this entire ordeal? Every word I said started giving me the skeevies. My stomach soured, making me queasy.
“I’ve got to go.” I shuddered and hung up. Tears streamed down my face. Why the hell did I do this?
I ran to my bathroom, barely making it to the toilet. I puked every last thing I’d ate, leaving nothing but bile sitting in my stomach.
After turning on the shower, I undressed, shucking off my clothes. The water poured on me, it brought a little life to my numb interior. Guilt ate at me, clawing my insides and making me sicker with each breath. There’s nothing wrong with phone sex, Rebel. It felt wrong, but it wasn’t. Guilt was the only contributing factor to my unease. If I didn’t love Coen, I’d be fine. I could brush it off like no one’s business, but with my emotions and turmoil running high, sickness was the only sensation available.
The water ran cold before I let myself out. The coconut body wash smelled heavenly, but nothing could fix the betrayal I felt. He'd messed with Felicity, so why should I care what I do? But for some fucking reason, I did.
Now, I’d be happier, I’d go outside. Walking through the park nearest me, I watched the beautiful kids swing with joy. The air, as usual, held dry and hot. I breathed it in, my nostrils inhaling all the scents available to me. The flowers were strongest, lilac bushes and roses wafting in the air. Taking everything in, I just watched, enjoying the peacefulness of not having anything to do.
Good thing I carried my laptop in my bag. I now knew how to help Cara and Bo with their story. Pulling out my computer, I felt the sense of urgency. If the words didn’t pour out soon, they’d leave me along with my little inspiration. Any author could appreciate the reprieve in writer’s block, especially me. When you felt it, you wrote that shit down. No matter where you were, you pulled out a napkin at a restaurant, a pen to your skin, the notes app on your phone. You spilled those words out like blood, or else they abandoned you.
That was exactly what I did. I sat on a bench, getting comfortable and plugging my earbuds in. My fingers flew over the keyboard, and the tears trickled as I gave them their turning point. The emotions you felt helped your writing. It was always easier to write depressing subjects when you didn’t feel happy. Sexy ones when you just got laid, and joyous ones when someone made you extremely happy. Emotions were the words of the soul. They drove you to your destiny wherever that might be.
As I typed continuously, a feeling tickled my spine, the spine-tingling sensation that someone watched you. I peered around, looking for the source, and twenty feet away, I spotted Coen. He watched me with a grin that reached his eyes. The urgency to flee ran rampant in my veins, but the author in me forced me to stay and write.
His feet tapped the concrete, and I could feel each patter of his steps. Was that possible? Sensing that little of a movement? I squeezed my thighs together. He automatically got that reaction from me. Then the phone call from earlier smacked me, and the unease doubled. He deserved better.