In the eight months Lucas Fournier and I had been dating long distance—me in Detroit, Lucas in Paris and now New York, I’d learned there was only one good thing about a long distance relationship.
Needless to say, I had never had phone sex before. In fact, I’d spent much of my sexually active life with Tucker Branch, a man who thought “changing things up” meant f**king me on his side of the bed instead of mine, after which he’d immediately insist on changing the sheets due to his aversion to bodily fluids. One time I tried to flip around so my head was at the foot of the bed just for some blessed relief from the monotony of his two Approved Positions, and he looked at me like I might need an exorcism.
What I needed was an orgasm.
I finally got one after Tucker called off our wedding (thank you, God), and my two best friends convinced me to take the all-expenses-paid Paris honeymoon by myself. It was there I met a sexy half-French, half-American bartender who taught me about wine, cathedrals, and simultaneous O’s.
But I digress.
Phone sex—I was a virgin.
Lucas claimed he was as well, although he’d always had a dirty mouth—it was one of the things that turned me on most about him. He was unafraid to articulate even the most graphic of his thoughts and desires. I, on the other hand, had to teach myself not to be inhibited by the shape of certain words on my lips. The sound of them in my girlish voice. It was one thing to think them, but saying them out loud took a fearlessness I hadn’t learned.
I was a quick study.
Soon, I began to enjoy the way such raw words empowered me. At work during the day I’d think of new ways to piece them together, new fantasies to describe to him, new descriptions of what he did to my body and what I wanted to do to his.
And then there were the outfits.
Lucas always liked to know what I had on, and I knew he enjoyed seeing me in lingerie—beautiful lacy things in pink or white or black, classy with a hint of kink. He’d sent me a few gifts, but I also shopped a bit for what I thought of as my Phone Sex Wardrobe, and he loved it when I’d message him a picture of me in something new.
OK fine, once, one time, I told him I was wearing a corset, thong, and high heels when I really had on flannel pants with bunnies on them and a gray Detroit Tigers tee shirt with the neck cut out. I was unprepared, all right?
But mostly, our conversations went like they did tonight.
“So. What are you wearing?”
“Mmmm, nothing too sexy, I’m afraid.” Sometimes I teased him, let him think I had nothing but good-girl intentions when I picked up the phone.
“It’s sexy if it’s on your body. Tell me.” His voice had dropped to that low, distant-thunder pitch that told me he was turned on. Sometimes we’d talk for hours before he’d use that voice on me—other times, like tonight, only a minute or two would pass between “Hello” and “What are you wearing?”
“White panties. Black lace around each thigh. Little black bow at the top.”
I laughed softly. “Yes.”
Silence, during which I imagined him starting to get hard. It made my ni**les tingle, my breath catch.
“Are you in bed?” I pictured him in his New York apartment, lying in bed, shirtless, blankets thrown back, stroking himself. Arousal licked at my insides when I pictured his hand wrapped around his solid cock—God, I wanted it.
My right hand drifted to my inner thigh. “Are you hard?”
“Yes.” His breathing grew heavier, as did mine. “Touch yourself through your pretty little panties, Mia. Drench them.”
I shimmied down onto my back, let my knees fall open, and rubbed slow circles on my clit until the sheer material grew damp beneath my fingers. “I’m thinking about your cock,” I whispered. “It makes me so wet.”
“Yes.” I closed my eyes, imagining him above me. “If you were here, you would get inside me so easily.”
“My tongue first.”
“Fuck. Yes, your tongue first.” I moved my hand faster, pressed harder, encouraging the low hum building between my legs. “Lucas, it feels so good. Can I take my panties off, please?” I was already working them down my legs, but I knew it turned him on when I asked permission like that. Hell, it turned me on too.
“Such a good girl to ask, Mia. To say please.”
Oh my God. His accent had crept beneath his words, and it nearly pushed me over the edge. Although he spoke perfect English most of the time, sometimes a trace of his French upbringing revealed itself when talked to me like this. He once told me it was because he can’t think straight when he’s so turned on and his two languages mingle in his head. I love that—his dirty thoughts about me run through his mind en f**king français.
“I am a good girl.” I flung my panties off my foot into the middle of the room and brought my fingers back to the silky heat between my legs.
“You are. And I like to kiss that sweet good-girl pu**y of yours. I like your taste in my mouth, like candy. I like to make you wetter with my tongue.”
“Mmm…” I listened to his words and closed my eyes again, imagining my fingers were his mouth and tongue on me, licking, swirling, sucking. I loved the way he used his hands to spread me open, the unabashed way he buried his face between my legs and f**ked me with his tongue before sliding up my body and—“Oh God, I want you there,” I whispered. In my mind I saw his dark, tousled hair between my pale thighs, I felt his scruffy jaw against my bare, sensitive skin. My entire lower body tightened and thrummed. “And I want to suck your cock, I want you to watch me do it. I love when you put your hands in my hair, pull me to you and f**k my mouth. I love to feel you come that way, right at the back of my throat.”