Chapter 22 #2
“You’re so strange,” I comment, and I don’t know when I started rubbing my thighs together, but I can’t seem to stop.
“What colour are they? Your knickers?”
“White.”
“Of course they are,” she scoffs. “Are they frilly?”
“No,” I say with a soft laugh until I remember they were that night, in my car. I wonder if Pia thinks about that night as much as I do. “They’re lace.”
“Oh.” Pia’s tone changes, deepens. “So can you see your pussy through them?”
I don’t look down, but I do stroke my labia through the lace. It feels so good. Too good. And that makes me feel brave. “Yes, you can. The hair is growing back.”
“Fuck,” Pia grits out, and she says something else, but it’s swallowed by more muffled rustling. “And your bra? What colour is that?”
“Cream. It’s satin. Not see-through. I needed support on my walk.”
Pia’s laughter is gentle and ends in a sigh that I swear is more moan than anything else.
“I miss your tits,” she says.
I miss you, I want to say. It’s right there on the tip of my tongue.
“Touch them for me,” Pia says. “Play with your nipples.”
I slide my free hand into my bra and do as she asks. I’m not surprised when my nipple is already hard and so very sensitive.
“Oh, Pia,” I hum out, a shot of desire charging through me from my breast to my core.
“You wish it was me, don’t you?” she prompts. “You wish it was my hand. My mouth.”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes, I do.”
“Play with the other one,” she says.
“Where are you, Pia? What are you doing?”
“I’m also in bed, English rose. And I’ve had two fingers in my cunt since I first heard your voice.”
“Oh,” I say, breathless.
“Suck on two of your fingers,” she tells me. I do it immediately, surprised by how good it feels to have my mouth full. “And then put them in your lacy white knickers.”
I should hate her teasing me like this, teetering on the edge of humiliating me. But I don’t. In fact, I crave more of it.
I moan loudly when my wet fingers brush against the tip of my clit.
“Does that feel good, Cassie?” she says. I’m stunned for a split-second at hearing my name roll out of her mouth so easily, so perfectly, but then I move my fingers, stroking my clit.
“God, yes,” I say. “It feels so good.”
“Are you wet?”
“Yes,” I say. It’s the truth. I’m obscenely wet.
“Taste yourself,” she orders.
Some buried part of me tries to be shocked, but the rest of me, the core of me that is pulled as tight as stretched elastic with desire, silences her immediately. I put my fingers in my mouth.
“And?” Pia prompts, sounding even more impatient than usual, which is something. “What do you taste like?”
“Salty. Sweet. But not as sweet as you,” I tell her.
She grunts out something in Swedish, and then there’s more rustling. “Fingers back in your knickers.”
I obey in a heartbeat, and I coax the tips of my fingers over my clit as slowly as I can stand because if I don’t, if I go faster, I know I’ll come.
“You’re so close already, aren’t you?” Pia says, and I’m floored by how she can somehow read my mind from the other side of the world.
“It’s been a while,” I tell her.
“You haven’t found anyone to take care of you?”
“No,” I say, trying to school the horror out of my voice. Does that mean she has?
“I can relate,” she mumbles, and my heart skips far too quickly.
“Pia, I—” I begin, even though I don’t know what I want to say.
“Keep stroking, English rose.”
“I am,” I say, and I pin the receiver between my shoulder and my head so I can bring my other hand up to pinch my nipple. “Oh, Jesus, yes…”
“I love it when you curse,” she says. “It makes me feel like I’m corrupting you.”
“Pia,” I gasp, “you’ve done so much more than that.”
I expect her to laugh or to agree or maybe argue back, but she falls silent, and I don’t know why. But then I press the tip of my middle finger against my entrance and I imagine it’s Pia. Pia’s finger. Pia’s lips. Pia’s tongue.
I moan so loudly I know it must rattle down the phone line.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Your mouth,” I say, all air. “On me…”
“Where?” she asks impatiently.
“On my … On me.”
“I need you to say it,” she demands. “I need that pitch-perfect voice of yours to say dirty, dirty words.”
I arch my back. “Jesus, Pia. My cunt! I’m thinking about your mouth on my cunt!”
Now she does laugh. “Are you fucking yourself yet? Are your fingers inside you?”
“No,” I say. “Not yet.”
“Do it,” she orders, and I hear then just how ragged her own voice is. “And hold the phone down to your cunt so I can hear you. I want to hear just how wet you are.”
“Oh, God, Pia.” I close my eyes as if I have an audience to be embarrassed in front of.
“Please, Cassie, and put it really close, I want to make sure I can hear you.”
It’s her new gentle cadence that has me doing what she asks, self-consciousness flying out of the window. The receiver is in one hand, resting against my thigh, and my other hand slides into my knickers. I push my fingers inside my cunt, and I hope Pia can hear what I hear.
I bring the phone back to my ear. “Did you hear that?” I pant out as my hips rock against my hand, fucking my fingers.
“I heard,” she says. “Make yourself come, Cassie. I can’t wait any longer.”
I almost protest, because I don’t want this to be over. God knows how much this phone call is costing, but I don’t care. I will pay for it one hundred times over.
In fact, maybe we can do this again. Every few nights. Whenever it’s possible.
Maybe this could be enough.
“Oh, God,” I groan again, and it’s inevitable now.
Inevitable. I think about the way Pia said that word a moment ago. The syllables a bit more pronounced. The vowels higher in pitch.
“Yes, Cassie,” she tells me. “Make all the noise. Be loud. I want to hear you.”
I think about her hearing. I want to ask her about it.
I want to know every single detail about Pia’s life.
About the tour. About the music she’s writing, which she hinted at in an interview I read.
But I’m too far gone to act on anything but my fingers in my cunt and the way that tight elastic is so so close to snapping completely.
“I … my God, Pia,” I sigh. “I want … I wish…I need…”
“I know, Cassie, I know,” she says, and I allow myself to believe she really does.
And then I come. I clench. I spasm. I shake. I sweat. I lose my hearing. I don’t see anything but bright light. I yelp. I sigh. I moan, and I sing.
It must only last seconds, but it feels like hours of pleasure have just wrecked my body.
When I finally open my eyes and see the yellowing ceiling of my hotel room, I am panting and trembling, and the phone has slipped out of my grip.
“Pia,” I say when it’s back to my ear.
“I’m here,” she says.
“That was … oh, my…Did you? Did you … already?”
“No,” she says. “I want you to hear me.”
Inexplicably and unbelievably, another coil of desire makes itself known in my cunt. “I want that too.”
“I’m going to use the phone,” she says. “I’m going to fuck the phone. I’m going to imagine it’s you.”
“It’s me,” I affirm.
“Yeah,” Pia says, and then there’s the loudest rustling of all, which doesn’t stop. It only becomes more rhythmic, more predictable. My fingers are back in my knickers by the time Pia is moaning out my name at the end of each muffled beat.
“Fuck, Cassie,” she says, more distant. “Why is it this good with you? Why does it have to be like this?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper as I cradle the phone as close to me as I can.
“Fuck, yes, there … Shit,” Pia hisses, and thank fuck she sounds so close. Even though she is so very far away, I feel so incredibly close to her.
“Please come, Pia,” I whisper again, and then I realise I can say whatever I want. She can’t hear me. “Please come with me, Pia. Please. And please, let’s do this again. Please let’s keep doing this. Let’s … Let’s…”
I can’t finish that sentence because my orgasm overwhelms me again. And with any awareness I have left, I focus on listening to the desperate, delicious sounds that Pia makes as she comes with me.