Chapter 11: Phone Sex - Confession
The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was thick, charged, a live wire strung between Vancouver and New York. Dee’s question hung there, a dare wrapped in velvet.
“Try me,” Matt said, his voice a graveled hum. He was standing rigid by the window, but his free hand had found its way to his own waistband, a unconscious press against the sudden, aching tension there.
Another rustle of sheets, intimate and close to the receiver. “An old, soft t-shirt. Gray. The one from the Magic Mike premiere after-party. It’s… threadbare. And panties. Cotton. Plain black.” She spoke quietly, each word a deliberate stroke. “Now you owe me a picture. What are you wearing, movie star?”
He groaned, the sound torn from somewhere deep. “Sweatpants. Nothing else.” He let that sit, heard her sharp intake. “And I’m so hard for you right now, Dee, it’s fucking painful. Just from the sound of your voice. From knowing you’re in bed, thinking about me.”
“I’m always thinking about you.” The admission was a whisper, stripped of all defense.
“Touch yourself.”
“Matt…”
“Do it. Please. I need to hear it. I need to know I’m not the only one going insane over here.” He was pleading, his forehead back against the cool glass, his other hand sliding beneath the elastic waistband of his sweats, wrapping around his own aching cock. He was fully erect, hot and heavy in his palm. He hissed at the contact.
On the other end, a soft, shuddering breath. Then the faint, unmistakable sound of fabric shifting, a subtle movement. He pictured her small, clever hand slipping under the worn cotton of her panties.
“Are you wet?” The question was raw, filthy. He began to move his hand, a slow, tight stroke.
A stifled moan answered him. “Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m wet. God, Matt… I’m so wet. Thinking about you. Your hands. Your mouth.” Her words were coming in broken bursts, matching the rhythm he could now hear—the slick, soft sound of her fingers working her own flesh. It was the most erotic sound he’d ever heard.
“I’d start at your throat,” he growled, his own strokes becoming more urgent, his thumb swiping over the sensitive head. “I’d lick that spot right there where your pulse is hammering. I’d suck on it until you begged. Then I’d pull that fucking t-shirt off with my teeth.”
“Yes…” Her breath was a ragged pant now.
“I’d take your nipples into my mouth. One, then the other. I’d bite them, just enough to make you cry out. I’d kiss my way down your stomach, your hips… I’d hook my fingers in those plain black panties and pull them down so slowly you’d want to scream.”
“Please…” she whimpered. The wet sounds from her end were faster now, a desperate, rhythmic slickness.
“Then I’d spread you open. And I’d look at you. I’d look at my best friend’s perfect, wet folds. And then I’d taste you. I’d eat your pussy until you came on my tongue, Dee. Until you were shaking and grabbing my hair and telling me not to stop.”
Her cry was sharp, half-muffled, a raw sound of pure need. “I’m close… oh god, Matt, I’m so close just listening to you.”
“Come for me. Come thinking about my mouth on you. My tongue inside you.” He was fucking his own fist now, hard and fast, his jaw clenched, his entire world narrowed to her voice and the building pressure in his groin. “I want to hear it. Let me hear you come.”
She broke. A guttural, sobbing moan tore through the phone, followed by a series of sharp, hiccuping cries. He could hear the frantic, final movements of her fingers, the wet chaos of her climax. The sound of it pushed him over the edge.
“Fuck… Dee…” His own orgasm ripped through him, violent and blinding. He came in thick, hot stripes over his own hand and stomach, his body shuddering against the cold windowpane, a ragged curse torn from his lips.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their labored breathing, interwoven through the phone line, a mess of static and aftermath.
Slowly, the world filtered back in. The distant glow of the city. The chill of the glass on his heated skin. The sticky proof on his abdomen.
“Holy shit,” Dee finally whispered, her voice wrecked and awed.
A shaky laugh escaped him. “Yeah.”
“That was…”
“Incredible. Terrifying.” He pushed away from the window, looking for a towel. “I just came harder than I have in years listening to you touch yourself three thousand miles away.”
“Same.” She let out a long, exhausted breath. “I feel… vaporized.”
He cleaned himself up roughly, then slumped onto the edge of the disheveled bed. The intimacy of it was staggering. They had just crossed a line there was no coming back from, and they had done it with voices and imagination alone. The physical ache was momentarily sated, but a deeper, more profound hunger had taken its place.
“Two days,” he said, the words a vow.
“Two days,” she echoed. “Then you’re here.”
“Then I’m there. And we’re not doing that over the phone.” He meant it as a promise, a carnal threat, a prayer.
“Okay.” Her voice was soft, sure. “Now get some sleep. You have to be charming for the cameras in a few hours.”
“I don’t think I remember how to be anything else right now,” he admitted.
“You will. It’s just us, Matt. It’s always just been us.”
They hung up shortly after, the goodbye whispered and thick with unspent promise.
Matt did not sleep. He lay in the dark, the scent of sex and lavender in the air, and made a decision. At 5 AM, he called his assistant, Trey, waking him.
“Change my flight,” he said, without preamble. “Get me on the red-eye tomorrow night after wrap. I don’t care what it costs. I’m coming home a day early.”
There was a pause on the line, then a resigned sigh. “The date’s not until Saturday, Matt.”
“I’m not waiting for the date.” He stared at the ceiling, a plan solidifying. He wouldn’t tell her. He’d show up. At her sister’s door. He needed to see her face, the truth of her, without the filter of a screen or the distance of a call. He needed to touch her for real, to see if the spark they’d just ignited over the phone would become a conflagration in person.
“Understood,” Trey said, the click of a keyboard already audible in the background.
Matt ended the call. The sterile hotel room felt different now. It was a waiting room. The last holding cell before his real life began.
Across the continent, Dee lay in the dark of Claire’s guest room, her body humming, her skin still sensitive. She could still smell him, a phantom scent of his cologne and clean sweat, conjured by her own desperate mind. The phone was warm in her hand.
She replayed every filthy, beautiful word. The way his voice had gone dark and commanding. The way he’d said “pussy.” It should have shocked her. Instead, it had felt like a key turning in a lock.
A quiet, steady resolve settled in her chest. The years of hiding, of joking, of being the cool best friend were ashes now. Burned away in a transcontinental inferno of need. When he arrived, there would be no more games. No more safe distance.
She got out of bed and walked to the mirror on the closet door. In the dim light from the street, she looked at her reflection—flushed skin, dark eyes wide and certain. She saw the woman he had just described, the woman he wanted. She finally recognized her, too.