Page 43 of Stud

I’m not going anywhere. I’d bet he was smiling.

I gave the girls sloppy hugs, braved the elevator down (only nearly passed out once), then took a cab to my place, slamming the door closed as I hit his number.

“Hey, baby doll.”

I melted onto my white duvet at the sound of his voice. “If you answer every call like that, I’ll be hitting redial all day.”

A half sigh, half laugh tickled my eardrum. “Glad you called.”

“Tell me again how you miss me?”

The rustling of sheets echoed. It was 3:48 a.m. his time. He was in bed. Did he slumber in the buff? In briefs? In pizza-slice printed pajamas bottoms? “I can’t sleep. Keep thinking about kissing you.”

“Just kissing?”

“No, doll. Not just kissing. The gay porn didn’t help.”

A yelp of a tipsy laugh burst from my lips. “Promise me we’ll always joke about my idiocy.”

“That’s an easy promise to make. How was your night? Aside from assholes picking you up.”

Jealousy edged his tone. I liked it. “Fun. Always nice to see the girls, and I found out a juicy tidbit about you.”

Heavy breathing replied. Then quiet. He was probably exhausted. I grabbed my lattice Calvin Klein pillow and tucked it under my arms.

“What did you hear?” His eventual question sounded scratchy, his deep voice roughed up by the late hour. His twang made an appearance, too. That sexy lilt he often kept hidden.

“Looks like we have friends in common—Rachel and Jimmy.”

A whoosh of an exhale slipstreamed from D.C. to my San Francisco bedroom. “Yeah, I found that out before I left. That’s who I had plans with.” His tone lightened. Hopefully he was as excited about the notion as me.

But I was a teensy bit more than excited now. I had my construction hunk on the phone, his sensual voice purring through the line. Feeling wired and overheated and frisky, I kicked off my heels and attempted to get naked.

“What’s that noise?”

I stopped thrashing around. “I launched my heels into the wall. Or do you mean the zipper sliding down the side of my dress as I dislocated my shoulder?” I’m sure I could have made that sound sexier.

He grunted—a low, masculine sound. “Ainsley…”

“Owen…”

My queen bed was a fluffy white cloud, my soft blue walls adorned with black-and-white fashion photos. It all looked hazy, probably hot-boxed by my heavy breathing. Zipper down, I shimmied out of my Carrie Bradshaw dress and dragged my pale pink panties and bra off. All that was left was a very horny woman. Blue Bunny was lounging on the duvet by my head, recuperating from today’s workout. I snatched him up and let him buzz into my phone.

Owen answered with a “Christ.”

“You want to play with me, or should we hang up so I can play on my own?”

“Has your bunny been busy?”

“Is your wrist sore?”

His next guttural sound came out more like a pained sigh. “Turn it on and spread your legs for me. Nice and slow.”

Holy Hannah. Dropping my head back, I let my knees fall wide and revved my little blue engine. “Are you touching yourself?” The need in my voice should have been embarrassing, but I was past the point of caring.

His baritone dropped an octave. “I’m gripping the base of my cock. I’m so turned on, baby. So damn hard. I’m stroking my whole length, slow but tight, picturing your luscious curves.”

Odds are I wouldn’t need battery assisted help to come. “Have you done this before? Because you could teach a class.”