Page 38 of Come to Me

I look at the pictures first. They're amazing, out of this fucking world. Luke's chest, his shoulders, his amazing as all hell abs, his entire torso all the way down to the soft hairs below his belly button.

My legs rub together, my sex clenching. His body is so damn amazing. I could never get tired of looking at it. But this video... is it really?

I swallow. We've talked on the phone before, but we've never... I've never even seen a man touch himself. Any other guy, it would be awful, weird, creepy even.

But, God, the thought of Luke stroking himself, looking at my pictures, coming thinking of me... I can barely breathe.

I press play.

It's our bedroom, our bed. It's dark. It must be late, after he got home last night. He steps into frame, his gaze flitting towards the camera. Then he smiles, that million-dollar smile of his.

He's in his suit, like he just got home from work.

A corporate fantasy come to life.

He takes it off slowly. First the tie. Then an eternity at each button. He moves slowly, deliberately. Like he would if I was there, watching him. He undoes his belt next, sliding his slacks to the floor.

My mouth waters. I never get the chance to gape at him quite like this. There's so much else to take in when he's here, but this is different. I have plenty of time to gawk.

And I do.

His body is a fucking work of art, and he moves so expertly. It's pure masculine sensuality.

He hooks his thumbs in his boxers, slowing even more.

I bite my lip, moving closer to the screen.

Over his hips... down... lower...

Then, they're at his knees.

God damn.

I blink, my nails digging into my thighs. It's not a close-up or anything. It's all of him--from his shoulders to his knees--naked and ready for me.

I can't look away.

He starts to stroke himself.

God, I wish that was my hand, that I was in bed with him. I wish I could feel him, hard under me.

I wish I could be the one making him come.

But I already am, aren't I? This is practically a dedication. He was so fucking hot looking at the pictures I sent him that he had to respond.

This is how he feels about me.

This is how much he wants me.

And it's so fucking hot watching him touch himself.

Maybe he's not there. Maybe it's not live. But I have to come with him.

I slide out of my boxers—his boxers actually—and drag my laptop to the bed.

There's no teasing. I'm already wet and needy and completely desperate.

I touch myself as I watch him. And I don't stop until I'm there, until I see his body careen towards an orgasm, his eyes closed, his lips pursed as he mummers, "Alyssa."