Normally, any call or text that comes in past my skincare routine goes straight to voicemail to be answered in the morning. My exceptions are Hannah, Cami, and Kat, for obvious reasons. But everyone else can wait.
But today, it seems I have added a fourth name to that list.
Temporarily, I remind myself.
“Rubia, how are you?” Damien’s voice asks down the line, and as seems to always be the case, his voice melts through my veins like honey, pooling in my belly with a comforting warmth.
“I’m good. How did Sharon’s case go?” I ask instantly. It’s been weighing on me since they left, but I didn’t want to be a pain and send Damien a text. For one, I had no idea of his plans for the evening other than knowing he had to get some work done, and for two, I didn’t want to be that girl. We’re not even dating, so bombarding him with “How was your day?” texts could ruin everything.
For the plan, I remind myself. Ruin everything for the plan. Definitely not for your potential romantic outlook.
Unfortunately, I’m having a harder time convincing myself of that one.
“Well,” he says with a low sigh. “She was granted the protective order with temporary full custody.”
“That’s great, Damien,” I say, stretching out under the blankets. The apartment is absolutely freezing during one of the first truly wintry nights of the season, and I already hate it.
“Yeah. We’ve got a long road ahead of us, but it’s a great first step.”
“How was she?”
“Relieved, I think. She got to go home with her girls.”
“And she’s somewhere safe? Staying with friends or family?”
“I put down three months rent at an apartment down the street from the girls’ school.” My heart melts.
“That’s incredibly generous, Damien,” I say in a whisper.
“Yeah, well, it’s the least I can do.” We’re both quiet, caught in our own thoughts, Damien not wanting any compliments and me finding myself constantly reframing how I see him, balancing who he’s showing me and who I’ve heard he was.
“This is weird, isn’t it?” he says. “I haven’t sat on the phone with a girl since high school.”
“Oh, you mean back when the dinosaurs were roaming?” I ask, and I’m not sure what makes me say it. I freeze for a moment, thinking I definitely went too far, but he just laughs, a deep, all-consuming sound.
“I should come over to your place and put you over my knee for that,” he says, and even though the words are silly, my body heats.
Somehow, he knows.
“Shit, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” My tongue comes out and licks my lips, but I don’t answer. “This is the kind of phone call we should have, yeah? I think I’m supposed to ask what you’re wearing next, right?” His voice has gone low, and I feel it through my whole body.
“We really are going back to high school, aren’t we?” I ask.
“I don’t want to hear about the phone calls you made in high school, Abigail.” My pulse is racing, but I don’t have it in me to explain I never had a boyfriend in high school, especially not one I had phone sex with.
“So, what are you wearing?” he asks again, his voice low, and my heart starts to race at his words. “Tell me, rubia,” he insists. I lick my lips, trying to decide what to do, and I half expect him to push, to ask again, or to drop it and change the conversation.
He does neither, staying silent.
So I answer.
“A tee shirt. And sweatpants.”
God, could I be less sexy?
“Take them off,” he says, his voice a deep growl that I feel all over. I start to do as he asks, like even though he’s miles away, his words are controlling me. As I’m kicking the sweats off, letting them ball up at the foot of the bed, my confidence returns.
“Are you taking yours off?” I ask, and he laughs.
“Yeah, rubia. Just to be clear, I’m going to talk you through making yourself come, and I’m going to jack off while I listen.” My breath catches in my chest, my hands hesitating. “So we’re on the same page for where I’m taking this.”
“Oh,” I say, my pussy pulsing at the thought.
“Yeah, oh. Now take your hand and put it on your tit, yeah? Roll your nipple, baby.” A low moan falls from my lips as I do. “I know you like that; I enjoyed watching it when I had you under me.” Another moan at the thought of that night.
“God, I’m already hard for you, baby. Wish you were here to take care of me.” He’s breathing into the microphone harshly, but the sound isn’t a distraction. It adds to everything. “Sit up, Abigail. Prop yourself up on some pillows. Put me on speaker then put your phone between your legs. I want to hear when you touch yourself.”
“Oh, god,” I murmur but obey, hitting speaker and rearranging. “Okay.”
I always thought phone sex would feel awkward and uncomfortable. Clunky. But with Damien . . .
“One finger, baby. Circle your clit but don’t press.” I do as he instructs, moving my finger down my body, the other hand continuing its work at my breast. I gently circle my already swollen clit and breathe out heavily.
Through the speaker, I can hear a rustling of bedsheets, slow and steady, and my mind conjures the image of Damien jacking himself off in that enormous bed, sheets up to his hips, muscles tense.
“That’s it. Picture my tongue there, teasing you. I’m dying to have you come on my face, to have you ride my tongue until you find it.” Another moan and I press just a bit more, dying for friction. Somehow, he senses that. “No, no, baby. Gentle. Don’t press. We gotta drag this out.”
“Damien—”
“I know, baby. I’ve got you. One finger, circling, yeah?”
I just moan a strangled noise in response.
“I’ve been thinking of this all week. Of your fingers on your pussy, thinking of me. Have you, Abigail? Have you fingered yourself to the thought of me fucking you this week? Made yourself come?”
“Yes,” I admit, low and soft. I don’t even have the mental capacity to lie, to feel shame.
“Good girl. That’s what I like hearing. What do you like? What do you do when you’re all alone?”
“My fingers,” I whisper. “Inside. God, Damien, I need—”
“Okay, rubia. One finger, slide it in. Slow. Tell me what you feel.” I sigh with relief.
“Oh shit, god.” It feels divine, pure torture, not nearly enough but enough to take the edge off.
“What do you feel, baby? My hand is pumping my cock for you.” Fuck, the mental image is everything. Next time—next time, we should do a video call. I need to see that, his thick hand wrapped around himself, pumping, pre-cum at the tip . . .
“Wet. I’m so wet, Damien. God.” My words are breathy. “So wet and so tight.”
“Fuck yeah. I’d have my mouth there, licking that up,”
“More, I need more, honey,” I say.
“God, you’re a dream. Such a good girl, waiting for your man to give you more. Two more, baby. Put in two more fingers. Tell me how full you feel.”
“Ahh!” My body bucks against my fingers, and I crook them, swiping my G-spot. “I need more.”
“You need my cock is what you need,” he says, his voice in a grunt. “Fuck yourself for me baby, hard.” I do as he asks, the phone inches from my wet pussy as I ride my fingers, fucking myself, chasing the invisible ledge. “That’s it. Fuck, I can hear how wet you are.”
“Honey,” I mewl.
“Not yet, Abbie.”
“Damien—”
“Not yet. You come when I tell you. I own that body; I own your orgasms.” His words drag another deep moan from me. “Fuck yeah, you like that. God, I want to fuck that cunt, baby. I’d be so deep in you.”
“I need more.”
“Rub your clit, baby. Rub it. I want to hear,” he says, and I do as he asks, moaning louder.
“That’s my dirty whore. Fuck. Moan for me, baby.” His words ricochet through me, a new rush of wet coating my fingers.
“Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god!”
“She likes my words, my filthy girl. Fucking perfect. Fuck yourself baby. Ride those fingers. Yeah, right there, so fucking good, baby.”
I don’t think he’s even saying things for my benefit anymore, just as lost as I am.
But I’m ready to detonate, his words, his heavy breathing, my fingers taking me closer by the second.
Thank god he seems to be right there with me.
“Ah, fuck, rubia, I’m gonna come,” he says in a low groan, sending another bolt of heat through me. “I want to hear you first. Are you close?”
“Yeah,” I pant, fingers pumping into my pussy, the sound of my breathing and the wetness filling the room. “God, I wish you were here.”
“I know, baby. Next time. Next time I make you come with my mouth.” Another low groan falls from my lips. “I want you to come now, Abigail. Come for me loud; let me hear it,” he says, his voice demanding, and that’s all it takes.
Pleasure crashes over me, making my mind go fuzzy, my body shake, my ears ring as I scream out his name. My pussy clamps on my fingers as I buck on them, trying to get more, get them deeper, get anything.
In the depths of my consciousness, the part that isn’t completely wrapped in the all-consuming orgasm I just gave myself, I hear Damien groan out my name and a deep, “Fuuuuuuck,” and I’m pretty sure another mini orgasm racks through me.
For long minutes after, we’re both quiet, breathing deep, and as the pleasure fades, my anxiety and self-consciousness roll in.
As seems to be the way, despite barely knowing this man but also feeling like I know him too damn well, Damien can somehow tell even through the phone line.
“Don’t. Stop your brain from overthinking, rubia. That was unbelievable, yeah?” I mumble an agreement, not eager to expand. He just laughs. “I’m gonna go clean up. You go do the same. Get ready for bed and then come back to your phone. We’ll talk until you’re too tired.”
“What?”
“Go change. Clean up.”
“But . . . we’re done.”
“As nice as that was, I didn’t call for that, Abigail.” My mind moves, trying to break down the words to understand some kind of subtext. “I want to talk to you before I go to bed. Hear about your day. I was supposed to be spending tonight with you. Today sucks, minus seeing you this morning and what just happened.” Again, I don’t answer, trying to wrap my mind around what he’s saying.
“Go. Clean up. Then give me some sunshine before you go to bed, yeah?”
Give me some sunshine.
Jeeze.
I like that, giving someone sunshine.
So I agree.
“Okay, be back.” I can hear the smile in his voice when he responds.
“Good.”
An hour later, we’re still talking on the phone. I’m curled up in bed with the phone propped between me and the pillow.
“I hate the freaking cold,” I say, tucking my feet in more. They’re still cold despite the fuzzy socks I have on with my thick sweats.
“It’s finally kicking in. But doesn’t the cold right now still fit your timeline of acceptable cold weather?” I smile.
“You were listening.”
“I always listen to you, rubia.” I ignore that part and the way it messes with my belly.
“Yes, November is acceptable cold, and I don’t mind it cooler, but my bedroom heat is shit. I think I need to call maintenance and have them take a look. But that always takes forever, and I need to take off work because I don’t trust the maintenance man not to go through my bedside drawers—”
“What’s in your bedside drawers?” Damien asks, interrupting. How did I know he wouldn’t just let that one slide?
I pause, unsure how much I want to reveal about the things I used to keep myself company when Richard wasn’t able to do the job.
“Come over sometime, and I might show you.” He groans a deep noise, and I feel it in my clit.
“Don’t play games, rubia. I just came, but I can be at your place in twenty minutes.” I just laugh, unwilling to admit I don’t hate that idea. “So your apartment’s cold?”
“Not my apartment, mostly my bedroom. My toes always get cold.” He laughs, and I like this. It’s easy. It could be so freaking easy to fall for this man. That much, I know. It’s almost a relief that we’re not like that.
I yawn, trying to hide it with my hand, but he laughs.
“You tired, pretty girl?” His words are low and soft and make me feel like I’m being wrapped in cashmere.
“No, I’m good,” I say, and he laughs.
“You’re tired. Go to bed.”
“No, really, I’m good, Damien.”
“Abigail—”
“I like listening to you, Damien,” I say, and I assume it’s because I came hard and I’m exhausted and finally feeling warm under my blankets, but I keep talking. “I don’t like being alone. I like listening to you.”
Now, where did that come from?
Damien takes long, embarrassing moments to respond, and for a split second, I think about hanging up, blocking him, and calling it a day.
But then he speaks again.
“Okay, rubia. I’ll stay on, tell you about my day. You fall asleep, yeah?” he says.
And I fall asleep to the low tones of Damien Martinez telling me about his day.
