Page 28 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

I need a massive dose of him, normal and sweet.

Is it a full moon? The internet says waxing gibbous, but the guys are fucking nuts tonight, Martin the most normal of the bunch. One was so bad—and brutally realistic—that I had Hunter google him to see if he was on parole for a sex crime. We didn’t find anything, so we banned his revolting ass from doing another call. I need a shower or three, some brain bleach, and my favorite human.

The onslaught continues until 3:00 a.m. Hunter waves as I head out the door, her six-to-two shift stretching later than usual, and I hear her say to whoever is on the phone, “I’m sure I can find someone who thinks coprophilia is as hot as you do.” Not it.

I’m not even home yet when she calls. Before she can speak, I blurt out my frustration. “No. Just no. I’m done. I know it’s my role to make sure our three salaries are covered by calls, I do, but no more. Someone will want me to fuck a Brillo pad or something. They all suck tonight.” I can’t deal with another asshat who wants to lock me in a box and take me out to fuck me like some serial killer with a blow-up doll.

She lets me vent for another minute before she interrupts. “I’ve got a call for you.”

“No. Please. I’m spent.” I need a break. I’m exhausted, and my bed misses me.

“Sweetie, I’m sorry. Let me rephrase. Henry’s calling. He said he knows he has a private line, but he was worried he would wake you and wanted to know if I thought you’d still be awake. Is he not the sweetest man ever?”

“There is nothing I’d like more than hearing Henry’s voice before bed.” I have hours of talking left in me, no problem. I text Henry and tell him to give me five minutes to get settled and give me a call.

I grab my sack of square cheeseburgers and fries from White Castle and head into our apartment. I don’t eat in my awesome chair because stains are forever, but screw it, I’m hungry, and Henry’s calling.

“Hey, Kait, how are you?” Dammit, Henry, the husky, tired thing should not be sexy.

“Henry, honey bunny, you sound like you’re dying of death.” He sounds worse than I feel. “Are you sick?”

“I slept like a baby last time we spoke. I passed out and woke up the next morning, feeling fantastic. I slept for at least nine hours.”

“Your blue light avoidance, exercise, and sleep hygiene stuff is paying off,” I say, but he didn’t answer my question. “Are you ill? You don’t sound good.”

“I haven’t slept since.” Not sick. Exhausted.

Now I’m ticked. “Henry Ann Marie Sterling! Why did you wait until three in the morning to call? You know it works better when you don’t wait until you’re a mess? Stop worrying about what it means and freaking call me. For fuck a damn duck’s sake, Henry.” It’s going to be hours. I hope I don’t fall asleep on him.

He laughs, a scratchy, worn-out sound, like an album played too many times. “I just got home from the airport. Work travel hell, flight delayed. I couldn’t sleep on the plane. Be gentle with me, sweet Kait. I called the minute I could.”

“Have you had a shower? Changed your thermostat? Changed clothes? Did you eat?” We have a regimen.

He chuckles, amused. “No, I walked in and called. I had some string cheese and a handful of potato chips while I waited.” His voice is heavy, weariness infused in every word, but he may be happy to hear my voice too.

We’ve gotten his sleep stuff largely dialed in. “Bedroom, please. Shut your door and crack your window, not too much—it’s legit cold out for late November. We’re aiming for a cool sleep environment, not frostbite. Is your thermostat turned down?”

“Woah, hang on, I’m thinking in slow motion.” There’s a shoosh as his window slides open. “It’s set for 65 since I was away, I think? Alexa!” he says. “What is the temperature on the thermostat?”

Alexa answers, “The thermostat is set for 62 degrees Fahrenheit.”

“Thank you, Alexa.”

He’s always polite, even after not sleeping for days, but this is a little much. “Did you thank Alexa?”

“Yes, Kait, and when the machines rise up and take over the world, my Alexa will defend me for being nice to her, so bite me.”

Against my will, I laugh. He’s loosened up more every time we talk, and I’m here for it. He’s delightful. It’s beyond charming that he never uses curse words. I’m foul enough for both of us.

“Get in the shower. You know the drill—warm shower, cold room. I’ll wait. Oh, Henry, the lavender stuff.”

I’m not bossy; I’m helpful. He needs to be managed, then babied.

“Okay.” He’s reached that place where he’s sluggish. I close my eyes, waiting for the sound of his clothes hitting the floor, and imagine we’re sharing his bathroom before climbing into his bed. This slice of normal life is anything but mundane. It’s… intimate.

The water changes when he steps in, and he lets out a soft murmur of pleasure. The snick of the bodywash cap has me imagining his hands sliding over his chest with handfuls of soap. Sexy little movies start in my head—water dripping down his torso, droplets clinging to his nipples. A tiny groan escapes me. I hope he can’t hear it over the water. He’s forbidden fruit, and I wonder how he tastes.

In my mind’s eye, he’s rubbing the lavender gel everywhere, reaching up to wash his hair so his abs and pecs are on display. My pulse picks up at the thought of him naked in the steam, rivulets of water racing down the hills and grooves of his body. It’s my imagination run amuck—he told me once he’s six foot one and that he’s lean.