25. Hailey
I cry myself to sleep in the back cabin with Plinko tucked between my boobs. When I wake, the itch is back. It tickles every inch of my skin. The need. The craving. Only this time, it’s more complex than ever before.
Part of me yearns for the blindfold and the bench. Another needs the scrape and burn of the needles staining my skin. The other, newest part, wants nothing more than to get lost in Arlo’s scent, the heat of his skin, the depth of his sad and mysterious eyes.
I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling for a while. Plinko stretches out beside me as though used to the obscene thread count and abundance of catnip. I imagine Arlo lying in this very spot. It’s his place, after all. Do I want him beside me right now?
Yes, more than anything.
So I pick up my phone and text my tattoo artist. We have several designs ready to go at all times for when the itch arrives. It’s always sudden and always desperate. He’s used to me and my weird quirks.
After a few minutes, he texts back with three design options that he can squeeze into the late afternoon. We settle on one and a time. With a plan in place, the itch recedes. The desire to see Arlo doesn’t. My fingertips wiggle with the need to touch him. My nipples pucker and my thighs clench.
I grab my phone and type again.
I need to hear my favorite sound.
A moment later, my phone rings. It’s a heady sense of power that I don’t deserve.
“Hello, Hailey.” That thin rasp shoots straight to my clit and my chest. I ignore the latter.
“Arlo, I don’t deserve you.” There’s sadness in my voice and joy too.
“Then may we never get what we deserve.”
My lips quirk. “I didn’t ask for forgiveness or forgive on this trip. I’m afraid I just wasted your fuel and your crew’s time.”
“Nonsense. You marked my plane with your scent. Making it all worthwhile.”
My cheeks heat. “I smelled you on Plink this morning.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Happy, and some other things.”
“Elaborate.”
“Well.” I wrestle my legs around the covers. “I’m lying in your bed right now, wishing you were here with me.”
“And what would I be doing if I were there?”
“Touching me.”
“Press the telecom button on the console by your head.” His order is snappy and full of desire.
When I do, a TV screen at the end of the bed lifts from a hidden compartment, and then flicks to life. In the window, I can see Arlo wearing a suit reclined in the back of a limo. A long jacket lies by his side. One of his big hands rests on the door, while the other holds his phone to his ear.
I shoot up onto my knees. There’s no chance of keeping the smile off my face, so I don’t try. I lean forward and whisper, “Hi.”
“Hello, Siren.” He points toward me. “Reach into the console near the coms button, grab the earbuds, and put them in.”
I comply with a flurry of movement that sends Plinko skittering to his very own cat cave, complete with a stuffed animal with a freaking heartbeat.
“Good.” I can hear Arlo as though he’s whispering in my ear.
“Can you see me?” My phone is still to my ear, and I hear him answer in tandem.
“Yes.” He hangs up the cell phone, but I can still hear and see him perfectly. I do the same and abandon my phone while scooting closer to the screen. My throat feels tight. I want to reach out and touch him. “Beautiful. Haunted. My siren. Take your clothes off and spread your legs for me.”
Sorrow turns to fire and blazes through my veins. My mouth pops open.
“If I were there,” he says, unzipping his pants and freeing his cock, “I’d put this in your pretty, shocked little mouth and make you choke on it.”
I moan and ruin my panties with a gush of moisture. My fingers fumble with the hem of my pale pink sweater dress at the tops of my knees. “Yes,” I beg and rip at my clothes, thankful that I wore so few. My shoes and socks are already on the floor. My dress meets them and I’m in only a bra and soaked undies.
“Take those panties off. Nice and slow, let me see.”
My body vibrates with longing to have him close, and even more, to please him. I sit back on my ass and work my panties over my hips. The fabric slides down my legs, and then I tuck them under me and spread my knees, letting the swell of my pussy wink at him.
“Perfect.” He scoots toward the edge of his seat. “Now, be a good girl and put them in your mouth.”
The thing in question gasps.
“Can’t have Nat running in to check on you while I take care of your aching cunt, can we?”
My gaze flits to the door. Last I saw, Nat was reclined with an eye mask and blanket. Sound asleep. Still, my pulse jumps.
When I look at Arlo and his beautiful hand around his fat cock, I moan and stuff my mouth.
“That’s it. Now, stop teasing and pull those lacy cups down for me.”
The points of my nipples look like they’re trying to tattoo him through the screen.
“Grab them and pinch.”
My hips jerk, seeking touch. His touch.
I know I’m red from head to toe and don’t care at all. I feel like I’m burning alive, and I love it.
“One hand on those perfect tits, and the other on your pussy.” He strokes himself slow and steady. His dangerous eyes are on me. “If I were there, those would be my fingers spreading you wide. My mouth getting you wet and lapping your cream.”
“Oh God.” I moan, and then remember. “Oh, Arlo.”
My fingers delve between my slick folds, imagining him here. I plunge two fingers deep and work them furiously. I twist my nipples in turn, and my hips writhe, wanting him.
“Grab my pillow.” He gestures. “The one by the console.”
I leave my breast alone and lunge for the pillow without stopping the work I’m doing on my cunt. My body nearly goes taut when I grab it because I know what he’s going to tell me to do before he does, and I love it.
“You know where it goes.” He smirks.
“Yes,” I mumble.
“Do it.”
I shove the pillow between my legs. It’s not him, not close, but it’s something. The pressure against my ass and around my entrance feels amazing.
“Are you going to cream on my pillow, Siren?”
“Yes.” I pump and flick my hips and massage my clit with slick fingers.
“I want to smell you on my pillow when I take my next trip.”
“I want you to. I want you to smell me in this room, to think of me and touch yourself.” My words make no sense, but he pumps harder at the garbled tune.
“When I come down your throat, will you drink me down?”
“Yes.” I’m wild, humping and moaning. Then I’m flying in every sense of the word. My worries scatter. My endorphins rush. My pussy creams.
“Good. Fucking. Girl.” He grunts and spills into a handkerchief.
My body glows like a lightning bolt before the strike.
I pull the panties from my lips and pant. “I wish that was my mouth.”
“Me too, love. Me too.” He cleans himself quickly and fixes his clothes. “Put my pillow back where you got it and stuff those panties in the console for me.”
As I move to do as he asks, my pussy clenches again. “You’re so dirty.”
“And you love it.”
“I do.” I’m also freaking out because he’s used the word love twice in the last minute. I know he spent time in the UK, a horrible time, and I know he’s in post-orgasmic bliss, so I don’t take it to heart.
“Thank you for everything.”
“Don’t thank me for my pleasure, Hailey.” He winks. “And don’t wash your hands.”
My stomach dips. “But?—”
“You’re due to land in ten minutes. I suggest you get that fine ass dressed and buckled into a seat.”
“Bossy. Bossy.” I poke my ass in his face.
“Mmm.” He rasps. “I’ll remember that. Goodbye, Hailey.”
My insides turn to Jell-O. It solidifies quickly, realizing this is goodbye until I make a leap or even take a step toward him. I hate myself for calling my tattoo artist and not him. For choosing the safety of the needle and not the delicious peril of his arms.
Maybe I’m incapable of progress.
I give him a small wave. “Goodbye, Arlo.”