Page 39 of Darling

He makes me fuck my own fingers for a bit before asking to see how hard I am. Here he shows me his own dick, leaking and extremely thick through my phone screen. My hole clenches around nothing, desperate for him, for it to be pushed into me.

“You’re so beautiful, Asher. So, so beautiful…” he whispers, stroking himself. “Show me your body, darling.”

These are the sorts of praise and compliments I usually get when I’m filming, but they never hit. Because they’re almost always for the camera, even when they sound totally genuine. But fuck, when he tells me I’m beautiful in that sincere British accent with that slow, steady voice—the same voice he speaks to the UN and heads of other countries with—and when he looks at me like he’s doing right now, like he can’t believe I’m real, it hits. It hits like a fucking truck.

“Christian, I think I’m gonna come soon… I’m so… close… fuck.”

“Come for me, beautiful boy. Let me see how much you needed this.”

“Ugh…” I groan, my head dropping back. My hole clenches tight around my fingers as my orgasm rocks through me, balls to head and out, shooting over my stomach. I’d shoved up my vest to show him my abs and nipples when he’d asked, both coated now with more cum than I can remember seeing come out of me before.

He comes a few moments later, gasping as he angles his dick up towards his own chest. It lands right in the brush of hair across his pecs.

After, we both meet each other’s gaze in the screen and laugh. “Still with me?” I ask. “How’s the old ticker?”

“I think I’m going to hang up now.”

“Oh, shoot and dip, I see how it is.”

“I’m… not sure I know what that means.”

“It means you just used me, Mr Ambassador.”

His eyes round with concern. “What? No, I didn’t—”

“Christian, chill, I’m joking.” I smile. “Anyway, I like feeling used sometimes, can be hot as fuck.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, it is.”

He lets out a long, lazy sigh. “You’re quite something, Asher Fox.”

“Better than the ballet dancer?” I raise an eyebrow.

He chuckles quietly at this. “Actually, you remind me a little of him.”

“I do? So, what, you have a type?”

“Christ, I suppose I do.”

“So… this was fun,” I hedge.

“It was lovely, yes.”

“When will I see you again?”

He stares at me, openly. “I’m working on it.”

My heart lifts. He’s working on it. That is more than good enough for me.

Thirteen

Christian

Felix calls me before 7am. I’m already awake; I’ve been lying in bed reading the book Asher had given me at the hospital. I’m beginning to understand what he meant that day in the bookshop: it is incessantly traumatic. I’m glad for the distraction of Felix’s ire.

“You had a fucking heart attack and never called to tell me???” he snaps in lieu of a greeting.