Ford

The Saturday morning news fills the silence of an empty, Arlo-less house as I unpack the last of my boxes. It’s kind of lonely without that little guy, but I’m glad to be done with Bree invading my space—literally and figuratively. Each day, her clothes would get progressively skimpier, her smile would get progressively sultrier, and her pathetic attempts at flirting would get progressively bolder.

Not to mention Arlo couldn’t stand her. He said she was on her phone the entire time and when she wasn’t, she was grilling him about me.

So much for the superintendent’s daughter being a safe choice.

Never. Again.

I’m mid-reach for my coffee when the Karma app on my phone begins to vibrate, telling me I have a call.

“Good morning, Absinthe,” I answer. “I was just thinking of you.”

“Liar.” God, I love her voice. Picturing this voice coming from those sultry lips in her photograph makes me hard as a rock.

“How was the rest of the party?”

“Fun,” she says. “I made some bad decisions, just like you told me to.”

“And what did you do?”

“I fucked a guy in the bathroom,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact. “He was big, and he fucked me so hard, Kerouac. I thought he was going to split me in two. And when we were finished, he ate my pussy until I came three times.”

“Bullshit.”

She laughs. “I know. You believed me for a second though.”

“I did.” So much so that it was beginning to make me envious of the faceless, big-cocked stranger who got to devour my Absinthe.

“I like your voice,” she says after a silent lull. “It’s sexy. You should read to me sometime.”

“That’s a strange request.”

“Just do it. Grab the nearest book and read to me,” she pleads. “Come on. My hand is down my pants right now, fingering my pussy. I want to cum to the sound of your voice, Kerouac. Please?”

My throat is tight, my cock straining against the fabric of my sweats. Grabbing a book from the coffee table beside me, I flip to an open page and begin to read, taking my time, keeping my voice steady and rhythmic. “And I know I am deathless, I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass, I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue, cut with a burnt stick at night. I know I am August …”

Absinthe exhales a sweet, soft moan, her breath quickening with each word I utter.

“Keep going,” she whispers, and so I do.

I turn to the next page, and I read another line, and another. Her breath grows forced and impatient and then quiet altogether.

“Walt Whitman.” Her breathy rasp mixed with her intelligence is like sexual napalm. “Very nice.”

For the first time in weeks, I find myself wanting to touch her—physically touch her. And knowing it’s an impossibility makes me want her even more.

The ache in my cock is a distraction that refuses to go away, and while I’d love nothing more than to lie around on this lazy Saturday, waxing poetic with Absinthe and getting lost in the sound of her sweet, sexy voice, I’ve got a little problem to take care of.

“I should shower. Work and all,” she says. The image of her in the shower does nothing to help my current situation. “Thanks for … that.”

Absinthe ends the call, and I close my eyes, slipping my hands down my shorts and jerking the length of my throbbing cock while a fantasy plays out in my head. In my mind’s eye, I’m punishing her for teasing me about fucking another guy at the party. And I’m showing her how good I can make her feel, how she’ll never need another man but me so long as she lives. I gift her with demanding kisses, animalistic thrusts, her ass cheeks red and warm from the slap of my palms.

And in my reverie, she gazes at me, her green eyes full, and she declares that it’s only me.

I’m the only thing she wants.

The only thing she’ll ever need.