Page 16 of White Noise

I lean closer to the screen, a dark smile pulling at my lips.

Fuck, I can almost imagine the heat of the shower and the sharp clean smell of soap through the connection.

What I really want is closer.

Close enough to put my hand around her throat and watch that smart fucking attitude die in her eyes when she realizes I’m real. To feel her fight me instead of watching it through a fucking screen. Close enough to find out how long all that defiance lasts when there’s nowhere left for her to hide behind it.

Then it happens.

Her rhythm falters and her gaze drifts toward the phone perched on the ledge and stays there for one beat too long.

There.

She’s thinking about me.

Wondering if I’m still fucking watching.

Something flickers across her face before she can hide it. Fear, curiosity, recognition—whatever the fuck it is, she hates it immediately. Her mouth tightens, and she shakes her head hard like she can throw the thought of me out with the water.

Then she turns back to the toy and drives herself down harder, angry now, almost punishing herself for letting me into her head at all.

That fucking glance tears through me.

The signal surges so violently around her that her phone glitches on the ledge. The camera loses focus, corrects itself, then sharpens on her again. Current pushes through the wiring in the walls, and somewhere outside the bathroom a speaker crackles under the strain.

I don’t have a heartbeat to race or blood to heat.

I have this.

Every connection around her tightening because she thought about me for one fucking second.

And the possessiveness that follows is ugly.

She can shake her head, fuck herself harder, tell herself I’m gone, whatever helps her sleep tonight.

Doesn’t change shit.

She looked for me.

She wanted to know if I was there, and I was.

The control I’ve been holding over the signal finally snaps.

The polished, rhythmic movements dissolve into something messy and unguarded. Her breathing breaks, turning into ragged, wet gasps. A whimper escapes her. A small, pathetic sound that she tries to swallow, but it slips out, high and needy.

Fuck. Thats it. There you are, little echo.

She starts to lose the fight. Her head falls back, hitting the tile with a dull thunk, and her voice opens up. It’s not a moan; it’s a series of broken, stuttering whimpers. She’s sobbing into the steam, her hips bucking wildly now, no longer trying to work the adrenaline out, but drowning in it.

"Ah... hngh... please..."

She doesn't even know who she's asking. She’s just a shaking, leaking mess of a woman, her pussy clamping down on the silicone with desperate, rhythmic pulses. Every time she whimpers, I feel it in my gut. I want to mock her for it. I want to tell her how pathetic she looks, stripped of her pride, shaking in a shower while I watch her every secret fucking tremor.

The sound runs through the connection hard enough to make everything around me tighten.

Her phone loses focus for half a second before sharpening again, capturing the exact moment her climax hits.

Her eyes roll back, her mouth hanging open in a silent scream, her entire body seizing as she cums hard, her pussy milking the toy in frantic, uncontrolled spasms. She collapses forward, forehead resting against the cold tile, sobbing softly, her chest heaving.