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“Put one hand against your throat.”
“Like yours?”
“Nothing feels like mine, but pretend.”
Her palm moves against her skin.
“Use your other hand on your clit. Faster this time.”
The first stroke steals her breath.
“That’s it,” I tell her. “Close your eyes and feel my hand where yours is. Imagine me holding your throat while I watch you touch yourself.”
“Holy fuck.”
“Keep going.”
She does.
Her moans become louder while I stroke my cock to the same rhythm. Distance disappears beneath sound. I can almost feel the heat of her skin and the pulse jumping beneath the hand wrapped around her throat.
“I’m close,” she gasps.
“Don’t stop.”
“I need you.”
“You have me.”
“I need you here.”
“I know, mamacita. Let my voice be enough tonight.”
“It isn’t.”
The confession tears through me because mine isn’t enough either. Nothing about this call can replace the body missing from my bed, but I refuse to let absence steal the pleasure we can still give each other.
“Then come because you need more,” I tell her. “Come knowing your body still recognizes me from four hundred miles away.”
Her breath breaks.
“Ryan.”
“Keep touching yourself.”
“I am.”
“Say my name again.”
“Ryan.”
“Again.”
She cries it louder while her fingers move faster.
“Come for me.”
Her body goes silent for the fraction of a second I remember from every time pleasure became too large for sound. Then my name tears from her while she comes, her cries filling my bedroom as I stroke myself through every broken pulse of her release.
