Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I

by Akeroyd, Serena

  But I can’t help myself. I haven’t spoken to him in the ten days I’ve been in Paris, out of guilt on my part and I miss him.

  God, there’s no hope for me.

  He’s called a few times, but I’ve ignored the persistent ringing. Only now, when I need to hear his voice, for no other reason than to connect with him, have I dialed his number.

  “Is everything okay over there now? Has it all calmed down?” he asks me, his voice tired but his words aren’t throw-away. I can tell he cares if I’m all right.

  “Much better,” I lie. “Nobody’s tried to insult me in at least a week.”

  My attempt to make him laugh works. A chuckle breaks free from a throat that sounds rusty. Laughter hasn’t been a close companion of late for Zane. But then, I get the feeling it never has been.

  The thought makes me immensely sad.

  “That’s what I like to hear,” he murmurs, sighing with satisfaction that all is right with me now.

  “Well, I prefer to hear the sound of you laughing. It doesn’t happen often.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, then he says, “You’re a special lady, Mona.” Touched, I’m a little unsure of what to say, when his voice suddenly deepens and he mutters, “Where are you?”

  “In bed.” Narrowing my eyes at the question, instinct tells me this is leading somewhere.

  Just where has my nipples budding into tight, taut tips.

  “At seven in the evening? Are you feeling unwell?”

  Shit. Time difference. Remember. Don’t let lust sizzle your brain cells, Mona.

  “No, I’m fine. Just sleepy.” Another lie.

  I hate being dishonest, but the situation merits it. Honesty would get me nowhere, at the moment.

  Zane grunts and the rumble of his voice makes my pussy tingle. “Wish I was there with you, baby. Are you wearing that nightie I like?”

  “What? My birthday suit?” I chuckle, and his reciprocating laugh has me looking down at the silky camisole and short-shorts I’m wearing and whispering, “Yeah. I like the feel of the sheets against my bare skin.”

  “That’s because you’re a little hedonist. Christ knows how you survived before you met me.”

  “I’m assuming that didn’t mean to come out as arrogantly as it sounded?” I ask, brows cocked in amusement.

  Another chuckle. “You know what I mean. You’re a ball of lust wrapped up in demure packaging. You need an outlet and, sweet cakes, I’m willing to donate my body to Hedonist 101.”

  “You’re so corny.” But that doesn’t stop a huge smile from my creasing my jaw. My sigh wafts its way over the phone line. “I wish you were here too. You left me all riled up. I’m used to at least two orgasms a day now.”

  “That’s because you’re greedy and I’m overly generous.” He hums under his breath, and it’s the sound of a man contented with his lot in life. For the moment, that is, before the confusion returns. And then, the tenor of the conversation changes and my instincts are proven to be correctly tuned to this man.

  Phone sex, here we come.

  In more ways than one, I hope.

  “Touch your nipples for me, baby. Tell me when they’re nice and hard.” Almost as an afterthought, he mutters, “Put the phone on speaker.”

  Quickly slipping the camisole straps down my arms to bare my breasts, I wriggle down the bed so that I’m flat on my back. Once positioned, I press the speaker button and place the cell beside my head. Retreating to the mattress, I grip my nipples between fore- and middle-finger and start to roll.

  “That feels good,” I purr.

  “As good as my mouth?”

  His voice sounds distant and I can tell that he’s on speaker too.

  What he’s doing, where his hands are… has me gulping with need.

  “No. But you’re not here,” I grouch around a pout.

  “Maybe not, but I am in spirit. Pinch down, Mona.” As a breathy moan escapes my mouth, he chuckles. “Are they hard?”

  “Yeah. They ache.”

  “We can’t have that. Lick your right nub, baby. Make it glisten. Can you do that?”

  My pussy should be glowing with the heat amassing down there. Him directing me, engaging my sense of hearing is like adding a light to a stick of dynamite. And that’s only a few instructions down the line.

  The result is inevitable and I, for one, can’t wait for the explosion.

  I cup my breast in my hand and urge it upwards. It’s a bit awkward, but I manage to rake my nipple with my tongue and nibble down a little too. I make sure to moan and feel flush with success as the sound of Zane’s breathing intensifies. “Are your hands on your cock, Zane? Do you wish I was there, sucking you deep?”

  That’s a lie. I can’t get even a quarter of his dick down my throat, but hey, this is phone sex. Anything is possible.

  “Yeah, I do, baby. Are you playing with your pussy?”

  I hum in affirmation, sliding my hands down to the waistband of my short-shorts and jerking them down over my hips and calves. Once I’m free from their hold, I spread my legs, reveling in the wetness gathering at my slit and the sensitivity that comes from the air brushing against my most intimate parts.

  It feels so decadently naughty to have my legs spread, my pussy completely on display to a man that’s on the other end of a telephone, but it has my belly burning. And not with indigestion.

  I trail a finger down through the clinging petals of my pussy and gather the moisture. I retreat upwards, coating my clit with my juices and a sharp moan breaks free. I can hear Zane’s chuckle on the other end of the line and I swallow, when he says, “Slide two fingers into your slit, Mona. Pretend it’s me. Pretend they fill you like I do. Smash your clit with the heel of your palm. Don’t rub it. Do you understand me?”

  Doing as ordered, I push my pointer and ring finger through the fluttering throat of my pussy. It isn’t enough and a needy sigh works its way out of me. I whisper, “I feel empty.”

  “I know, baby. But I’ll be with you soon.”

  “You will?” I ask, hope in my voice. “And you’ll fuck me, Zane? Slide that dick so deep into me that I don’t know where you begin and I end? And you’ll hammer into me so I feel like I’m going to go mad before I cum?”

  “If that’s what you want, Mona.” He swallows, and I revel in hearing his breathing pick up a pace.

  “It is. I want you to fuck me so hard and so deep that my pussy starts to panic. You’re so big, Zane,” I mutter around a groan, meaning every word.

  I start to fuck myself with my hand, but it’s not the same. Not as Zane’s cock. My fingers are needle-thin in comparison to the way he fills me. I need to feel him pushing through clinging tissues, forcing them apart even though they clamp down in distress. I need him to make me come. To push my legs apart, to bridge that physical connection that unites us.

  And my fingers aren’t doing the trick.

  It’s only then, that I realize I’m not talking. And neither is he.

  Licking my lips, I pull my fingers out of my pussy and slip them up to my clit. Maybe I can cum this way and I really want to. I want to listen to Zane’s climax as one rips through my body. It won’t be anywhere near as powerful as when he fucks me, but the mutual release will soothe that something inside of me that hates being apart from this man.

  My man.

  I start to frig my clit, ignoring his earlier order, using all four fingers of my right hand to slide through my juices and I can’t contain the sighs that break free as I time the pace of my movements to Zane’s breathing.

  As bereft as my cunt feels without his dick, the connection, simply being able to hear him, shoots this up to something far more than a session of masturbation.

  “Are you wishing you were fucking me, Zane?” I ask, swallowing around a sigh as a sharp slice of pleasure rips through my belly.

  “Yeah. I am, baby. I’m wishing I was right there and that instead of jerking off, your pussy was milking me dry.”

  My sex contracts at
that. Almost as though concurring that it is a willing party to milking his cock completely of cum.

  My back arches, my stomach tautens with the strain of containing this pleasure. With my free hand, I retreat upwards and pull and tug at one of my nipples.

  “I wish I could watch you jack off, Zane. I want to watch. I want to see what you do, so that I can learn to touch you how you want to be touched.”

  “You can watch if I can see you slide those fingers of yours into your pretty pussy. Is that a deal?” His laughter is choked and suddenly, his breathing intensifies. It gets faster and choppier, almost as though the very idea has driven him to the limits of his control. There are great, big pauses between each gulp of air and then, there’s a burst of air. A grunt. A hiss.

  And that’s all I need.

  My fingers begin to move at warp speed, grinding back and forth, up and down, left and goddamn right through the slippery mess that is my gushing cunt. I wriggle and writhe around the bed, the muscles in my legs contracting and releasing as my feet dig into the mattress, my hips arching upward. But I don’t burst, or explode as I would do if Zane were here.

  It’s a miniature cacophony of sensation.

  My entire form tenses, launching toward the sky as a sharp jolt of relief ripples along my nerve endings, taking the edge off, calming me but making my body miss him all the more.

  By the time my breathing has calmed down a little, my limbs have turned to goo. I remain in the completely open position. My sex bared to the room, even though that once-thrilling brush of air against my nakedness is almost painful as it nudges my sensitive clit. My breasts free and exposed, the nipples still tingling in sensory memory. How long I laid there, listening to the sound of Zane breathing, I don’t know. But for those endless moments, I’m more than content.

  His voice eventually breaks into the white noise buzzing in my ears. “I want you to call me, when your present arrives.”

  For a second, I don’t really understand him. Even minor climaxes take a while to get over, so cut me some slack.

  “Gift?” I ask around a yawn.

  “Yeah.”

  “For me?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Zane. You didn’t have to do that. That’s so sweet of you.”

  “You deserve it. We’ve been apart longer than we’ve been together and it’s just an apology as well as a reminder of how much you mean to me.”

  Heart literally melting in my chest, tears sting my eyes. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  If you judged Zane by his actions, you might class him as a bastard. An A class swine. You might hate him but drool over him. Feel for his sexual confusion or be irritated by it.

  But he’s a good man.

  At the very heart of him, there’s a chunk of gold and at this moment in time, I’m brushing up against the 24 carat center and it’s anything but cold.

  He doesn’t reply to my comment, his silence has an energy to it, though. One I don’t understand and one, for some reason outside of my knowledge, I don’t want to question. Instead, I ask, “Can you give me a hint what it is?”

  “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it?”

  Despite himself, despite his weariness and concern over Jake and now the languor of having taken the edge off his need, there’s amusement rippling through his voice. Once again, it thrills me but also adds to my guilt.

  Should I tell him where his husband is? Resolve one issue for him?

  Jake didn’t tell me that I had to keep my or his whereabouts a secret. But… from the fatigue emanating from Zane, as well as the hurt I can sense he feels at Jake’s continued absence, it makes me feel horrible keeping something of this magnitude from him.

  “I hate surprises,” I mutter, and it’s the truth.

  I really do.

  They’re never good.

  I mean, it was a surprise to meet Zane and as much as I want him in my life, he isn’t good for me, is he? That doesn’t make me want him any less, but if I can’t be honest with myself, then why bother?

  The man has me engaging in extra marital affairs and then lusting after his husband.

  Okay, that’s not Zane’s fault. But I wouldn’t be in the position of rubbing myself to orgasm last night, and every night since my first exploratory bout of masturbation in the bath ten days ago, where only images of Zane and Jake in my head will eventually get me off… That wouldn’t be the case, if Zane hadn’t saved my butt back in New York, would it?

  As it is, if everything goes downhill from here on out, I still have no regrets. Misery might be heading my way, but damn, I’ll know what it is to really care for a man, as well as what real sexual pleasure feels like. It won’t be worth the heartache, but it will be some consolation, right?

  Yeah, I’m not doing a great job of convincing myself.

  “Well, whether you hate surprises or not, I’m not going to tell you.”

  Shit. Suddenly, his answer reminds me that I’m not actually in New York to collect the gift. And if he won’t tell me what it is, that means I’m completely in the dark and I can’t lie about having received it. For a second, I have no idea what to do.

  Tell Zane the truth or tell him another lie.

  The untruth drops off my tongue, before I can recall it.

  “I’m not at the apartment at the moment, Zane. I’m camping out with Marina.”

  The silence on the other end of the phone isn’t quite deafening, but it’s pulsing. The sound waves are transmitting Zane’s confusion and annoyance down the line.

  “Why?”

  Talk about making a stone sound warm.

  Before I can get in any way pissed at his growl, he grits out, “You aren’t lying to me, are you, Mona?” My heart stutters in my chest, but before guilt can eat me up, he continues, “The press aren’t bothering you, are they? Because if they are, I’ll get a security detail to protect you. Is that why you haven’t been answering your phone?” His words almost run into each other in his urgency.

  No guy has ever offered to give me bodyguards before.

  Wow.

  “…You should have told me before,” he carries on, not letting me speak and sounding even angrier now. Some of that anger aimed my way for not informing him earlier.

  As charming as the idea is, of being surrounded by a ‘security detail’ as he phrased it–Christ, I love it when he goes all military on me—it won’t exactly hide the fact that I’m not in his apartment and that I’m out of the country.

  “Zane. I’m not lying.” Not this time, anyway. “I promise, things have been really quiet. And it was never the press that were hounding me. It was everyone else.

  “Look, I’m at Marina’s, because she’s split up with her latest and she’s taken it hard, that’s all. I’ve been busy with her.” I cross my fingers at the lie. Childish, but hopefully it will work. How can I purport to be honest and expect him to deal with me honestly, when I go about lying here, there and everywhere.

  More guilt weighs me down until my mouth is pulled down at the edges and I’m feeling like crap.

  “Can’t you go back to the apartment? Take her with you if you want.”

  “That’s a sweet offer, Zane, but she wants to be in her own home. Why is it important I’m at the apartment anyway?”

  “The security. You’re safe there.”

  “I’m safe at Marina’s. Her building is a lot more secure than my old one was.”

  “Yeah, well, you didn’t know me when you were living in that shit heap.”

  “Hey. I made that shit heap into my home.”

  His snort has me scowling. “Honey, you deserve far better than that dump. You deserve to be where you’re supposed to be staying right this minute.”

  Heat trails along my cheeks and then brands them with a bright pink flush. The softness in his voice touches me deep inside, so deep that I have to swallow before I can speak again. Considering his apartment is top-end luxury, his words reveal his feelings for
me.

  Alongside that comment of his from our last conversation, the part about me being his salvation, well, my heart feels like it’s going to explode.

  I want to ask him what he really feels about us, if he thinks we have a chance together, regardless of the odds. Regardless of his husband and the crush I have on him. Can this impossible relationship develop into something that really counts?

  But how can I ask that?

  When the man’s halfway around the world, somewhere in New England looking for his husband who just happens to be down the hall from me in France.

  I want to ask why this has to be so complicated. Why a guy couldn’t just meet a gal and the two fall in love, live happily ever after and make a baker’s dozen of babies?

  But I can’t.

  In his very depths, Zane’s a good man. He’s not perfect. He’s capable of doing wrong. But he’s just a man. A very confused guy with a husband he loves and a mistress he wants enough to damage the relationship he has with his spouse.

  Some might think he’s a jerk. After all, he has or had the best of both worlds for a short time, at any rate. Jake, me–he got his rocks off at both ends. But inside, Zane’s head is in a muddle and I don’t know what he has to do to clarify what he needs to do to unravel it all.

  “It’ll all be okay, won’t it, Zane?” I ask, feeling uncertain and insecure, where moments ago I’d been feeling the complete opposite. It’s a stupid question, but one that pops out of my mouth regardless.

  “Of course, honey,” he murmurs, his voice as molten as the endearment he just uttered. It isn’t a trite, throw-away of course, either. He means it. And even though nothing in our conversation warrants it, and even though I don’t know where it came from, it gives me the strength to ask:

  “Are you going to say goodbye to me soon?”

  His silence makes me choke up, but it’s soon cut through with a sigh. “No. I can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  I wish I could see his face. Look into his eyes, study his features and make an analysis. But I’m just relying on the subtle nuances in his tone, and the picture I’m painting isn’t complete. In fact, it paints more questions than it answers.