Chapter Nine
Adrian
T he phone rang three times before Isla picked up, and I could finally hear her pretty voice again, this time breathless with excitement and nerves.
"Hello?" She sounded surprised, like she hadn't quite believed I'd actually call.
"Hey there, angel." I settled back into my leather couch, letting warmth flood my voice. "Miss me already?"
A soft laugh bubbled through the speaker. "You're the one who called me, remember?"
"Technicality." I grinned, twirling my knife between my fingers, a habit when I was feeling strong emotions.
"How are you feeling after your grand exit? Any regrets?"
"Actually..." She paused, and I could practically hear her thinking. "No, it felt kind of good. Really good. Is that weird?"
"Not weird at all. It means you're finally listening to your instincts instead of their bullshit. "
I kept my voice gentle, encouraging. "You've got questions, don't you? I can hear them bouncing around in that pretty head of yours."
"How do you do that?"
The wonder in her voice made everything in me get warmer. "How do you always know what I'm thinking?"
"Because I pay attention to what matters." I traced lazy patterns on my thigh with the knife tip.
"And you, angel, are the only thing that matters. So ask me whatever's making you curious."
"What did you think of them? They're not... I mean, they can be catty sometimes, but they're not evil."
I paused, choosing my words carefully. No need to be cruel about it—she'd figure it out on her own soon enough.
“My soft, angelic, pretty girl," I started softly, "real friends don't make comments about you to tear you down. They don't roll their eyes when you order what you want. They don't treat you like someone they're stuck with.”
I let that sink in before continuing. "You deserve people who make you brighter, not dimmer.”
Silence stretched between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable. I could hear her processing, that brilliant mind working through the normalized toxicity.
"I never thought about it like that," she whispered finally.
"Because you're too sweet to see malice where you expect friendship. It's one of the things I love about you, but it also means you need someone looking out for you."
I grinned, injecting playfulness back into my voice. "Lucky for you, I happen to be excellent at that job."
She laughed, and the sound went straight to my dick. "Are you applying to be my bodyguard now?"
“Pretty angel, I'm applying to be whatever you need. Bodyguard, chef, entertainment committee, personal chaos coordinator..." I counted off on fingers she couldn't see. "I'm very versatile. "
"Chaos coordinator?" Curiosity colored every syllable.
"Oh, you have no idea what you've gotten yourself into with me." I chuckled darkly.
"I'm like a tornado in designer pants. Beautiful to watch, absolutely devastating to anything that threatens what belongs to me.”
“You’re funny.” But her breath hitched-just a fraction-and I filed that sound away in my mental collection of Isla-noises.
That little catch in her throat was going straight to the spank bank.
We fell into easy conversation, her voice wrapping around me like smoke.
She told me about her day-painting, coffee with her mom, her brother's soccer games, and I hung on every syllable, every laugh, every time she said my name.
I memorized it all: the way her pitch rose when she talked about her hobbies, the soft click of her throat when she swallowed, the hitch when I called her "good girl."
My hand drifted to my thigh, tracing idle patterns that grew increasingly closer to where I’ve been violently straining against my sweats.
“You’re quiet,” she said suddenly.
“Just listening.”
I dragged the knife’s tip along my thigh, the pressure just shy of breaking skin. The danger of it made my cock twitch. “Your voice does things to me, Isla.”
A sharp inhale. “What… things?”
There it was. The crack in her composure I'd been waiting for.
I closed my eyes, imagining her curled on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, that pretty sundress riding up her thighs, showing the soft flesh I'd glimpsed when she'd painted on her balcony.
"Tell me what you're wearing."
“Adrian—”
“C’mon, angel. Humor me.” I let the edge slip into my voice—not a request, not quite a command .
A shaky exhale. “A… a tank top and shorts. Why?”
Fuck. My cock jerked, straining against fabric.
“Color?”
“Pink. The tank top, I mean. With little daisies.” Her voice grew shy. "And shorts."
I groaned, giving myself a slow, firm stroke through the material. The image of her in something soft and innocent was almost too much.
"I bet you look sweet enough to eat, angel. All soft and pretty in your little flowers."
"Adrian!" Her gasp was half scandalized, half excited, and I grinned at the ceiling, imagining her blushing.
“What? I’m an artist too. I appreciate the aesthetics.” I lightened my voice and shifted, the fabric straining against my erection as I traced my length with the knife.
"Though I'd rather pluck your petals myself."
Silence. Then, so quiet I almost missed it.
“Me too.”
The words punched through me, hot and vicious. My grip tightened around my shaft, still through the fabric, squeezing just hard enough to make my breath hitch.
"Yeah? What else do you want, Isla?"
A whimper. “I don’t… I shouldn’t?—”
"Tell me." I dropped my voice, letting it roughen as I slipped my hand beneath my waistband, wrapping my fingers around my bare cock.
"Or I'll guess. And Isla, I’ve got a very vivid imagination."
Her breath quickened, shallow and sweet. “I… I think about your hands. From the club. How they felt on me.”
“Where?”
The image of her thinking about my hands on her body made my cock pulse against my palm.
“Everywhere.” A desperate little noise escaped her. “My hips. My neck. ”
I bit back a growl, squeezing harder. “And what else?”
"Your mouth. How you bit me. I keep touching the spot where you?—"
"Like this?" I dragged my teeth over my knuckles, loud enough for her to hear, my other hand working a steady rhythm, pre-cum already slicking my fingers.
“Yes.”
"Good girl." I rewarded her honesty with a low hum of approval, fully freeing myself from my sweats.
I stood thick and heavy in my hand, veins prominent against flushed skin.
"Now, how do you feel about touching yourself for me?”
A choked sound came through the phone. "I-I don't know. Not... not with someone listening."
"Sure you do." I purred, stroking myself slowly, matching the rhythm to my words. My thumb circled my sensitive head, spreading the wetness there.
"Start slow. Trail your fingers down your neck… Pretend it's my mouth, my tongue licking over your soft skin.”
Her breath hitched, followed by the soft shush of skin on skin.
"That's it," I praised.
I closed my eyes, picturing her head thrown back, chest flushed, fingers skating over collarbones I'd mark with my teeth if I were there.
My hand moved faster on my cock, my hips lifting slightly off the couch to meet each stroke. “Now lower. To those pretty tits you're always hiding under those little dresses."
"Adrian—" Her voice was scandalized, breathless.
"Trust me, angel," I purred, imagining her small, soft hands replacing mine. "I remember every detail from the club. The way they felt pressed against me.”
My breathing grew heavier, strokes more purposeful. "Touch them. Tell me how they feel."
The sound of rustling fabric, then a soft breath. "They're... soft. ”
"Good girl," I praised, cock throbbing at her obedience.
"Circle your nipples with your fingers. Gently at first."
I demonstrated on myself as I spoke, running my thumb over the head of my cock, teasing myself the way I wanted her to tease herself. “Then pinch them for me.”
Her sharp intake of breath told me she'd obeyed. My hand moved faster, muscles tensing as pressure built at the base of my spine, way too fucking fast.
"How does it feel?" My voice had dropped an octave, rough with holding back.
"Good," she whispered, "Please..."
That single word, so needy and desperate, almost made me cum. I slowed my strokes further, not wanting this to end too quickly.
"Please, what? Tell me, pretty angel.”
“I need… more.”
"More where?" I squeezed the base of my cock tightly, staving off the orgasm that threatened to overtake me at her shy admission. "Tell me where you want to be touched."
Her voice was a soft whisper. "Between my legs."
My cock jerked in my hand. "So honest for me." I resumed my strokes, slower now, more controlled. "Slip your hand into those flowery shorts. Tell me how wet you are."
Another rustle, then a sharp inhale. "I'm... oh god…”
"Soaked?" I guessed, grinning at the ceiling. "Just from talking to me? From touching your pretty tits for me?"
"Yes," she admitted, her voice breaking on the word.
"Touch yourself, angel. Slow circles at first.”
I matched my own pace to what I imagined hers was, gentle and exploring at first. "Tell me how it feels."
Her breathing quickened, punctuated by little gasps that drove me wild. "It feels... I've never done this with someone listening."
"I'm not just listening," I growled, my hand speeding up again, unable to maintain the slower pace with those sweet sounds in my ear .
"I'm right there with you. Touching myself to you, angel."
Her breath caught. "You are?"
"Fuck yes," I ground out, hips lifting off the couch with each stroke. "Hard as steel just from your voice. Imagining your artist’s hand wrapped around me instead."
She made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan that shot straight to my depths. "Adrian..."
"That's it, angel. Say my name like that. Like you need me." I was close again, heat building at the base of my spine, balls drawing tight. "Faster now. Chase it. I want to hear you come."
Her breathing turned to little pants, soft sounds escaping between them that had me gripping the phone tight enough to crack it.