Page 87 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls

All day? At her high-powered job? Skye smothered a girlish bray into her hands.

Skye – 2:22 am

You bring that out of me.

Celene – 2:23 am

Can we talk?

I want to hear you.

Skye gave an affirmative reply and still nearly leapt through the ceiling when her phone buzzed for a call. She bemoaned theabsence of video until the rousing sensation of Celene’s voice wrapped around her.

“Where are you right now?” Celene asked in a husky, unambiguously turned-on timbre, a feast for the senses.

Skye would probably lose consciousness if she thought about anything that may have transpired before the text exchange. “In bed. How about you?”

“I’m having a glass of Malbec. I’m not far from my bed, though.”

This was legit. Skye skimmed her mind for what to ask, very rusty at this. “So, what are you wearing?”

And, what a relief, they broke into laughter. Skye quieted hers with a hand. Luce wouldn’t hear, but she’d take no chances. “Sorry. I’m not used to this.”

Celene recouped in a melodic sigh. “And what isthis, per se?”

A new flush stuck Skye’s thin pajama top to her skin. “It’s late at night. You’re looking at my sexy photos. I’m in bed. You’re drinking wine.”

Moments stretched by until Celene spoke. “I’m dressed in a nightgown, silky and sheer. It barely goes lower than my thighs.”

“Oh. I can see that.” Skye wasn’t exaggerating; her eyes hazed into daydream mode, on the softness of the fabric when Celene ravished her mouth days ago, how the textile bunched in her hands. “Um, how’s that wine?”

“It’s almost gone. Now, tell me what you have on.”

The sharpness there quickened her heart even more. Like an impatient supervisor checking over her shoulder. Skye may not make it through this. She touched each item as she named them. “Sleeveless pajama top. Drawstring shorts?—”

“How short?” Celene cut her off, urgency directly impacting the juncture clinging to her panties.

“They don’t cover a lot. I’ll say that much.”

Celene’s shuddering breath wound Skye up drastically, almost painfully. “No bra?”

“God, no. It’s too late for bras.”

“Mm, same.”

In the many instances of them kissing lately, Skye relished in the press of Celene’s breasts against hers. Soft, unignorable fullness. A slow breath left her lips. “When will you get into bed?”

“In a minute.” That mischief Skye appreciated tinted Celene’s tone, with, “How do you want me? On my back or my stomach?”

Skye’s moan shook her whole body. It took concerted effort to keep her free hand over her clothes. “Which do you prefer?”

“I’ll start on my back.”

“Excellent.”

She flattened her ear against her phone to pick up on the shuffling of what she assumed to be Celene’s bedsheets. Distantly, Skye recognized a car alarm in the Manhattan background, not a nuisance, and more seasoning to the mood. Like she was there.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Skye joked in her anticipation. Anything to keep her sensitive body at bay.