Page 95 of Disarm
“Good,” he says, nodding. His eyes scan my face like he can check my BAC through the screen. “You eat?”
“Fries,” I say. “And some nachos. I think. There was cheese. And chips. It was glorious.”
“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’m trusting you on that.”
I roll onto my side, propping the phone up against my pillow so I don’t drop it on my face. His image settles in front of me, a little pixelated, but still him.
“I missed you,” I say suddenly. The words tumble out unfiltered. “All day. During warm-up. During the game, I kept thinking, ‘Miggy would tell me to breathe right now.’”
His expression softens, eyes going soft around the edges. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You breathe?”
“Sometimes,” I say. “Better when I remember you were probably watching.”
“I was,” he says. “Watching you kill it on the court, baby.”
We talk for a few minutes about the game. He recites plays back to me like he was courtside, not hunched over a laptop in our living room. He tells me the commentators called me “arising star in UCSC’s lineup” and that he yelled at them when they criticized my first-half shooting.
His voice is a lullaby and an anchor at the same time. The alcohol makes my head swim in a nice, loose way.
“You know what I really wish?” I blurt out.
Miguel’s mouth kicks up. “What’s that?”
“That you were here,” I say. “In this stupid hotel.” I glance around at the beige walls and generic art. “So we could fuck.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?” he says, amusement and heat threading through his voice. “Is that so, pretty boy?”
My face goes hot, but I don’t look away. “Yeah,” I say, licking my lips, feeling my dick twitch. “I’m getting hard just thinking about it.”
His eyes darken in a way I know too well.
“Go on then,” he says, voice dropping, slow and deliberate. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”
Oh, phone sex. Haven’t done this since before Christmas break.
“I keep thinking about you in this stupid room. About you pushing me down on this bed and—” I break off on a laugh, covering my face with my free hand. “God, I sound ridiculous.”
“Hey.” His voice softens, but the heat doesn’t go anywhere. “You sound perfect. Tell me more.”
I swallow, staring up at the beige ceiling. “You,” I admit. “You walking in here like you own the place. Locking the door. Putting your hands on me.” My voice drops without me meaning it to. “Touching me.”
On the screen, his jaw flexes. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You touching yourself right now,hermoso?”
My fingers curl in the sheets. I’m already hard as a rock. His voice. That heavy-lidded, hungry look. “Not yet,” I say, and my pulse stutters because we both hear the “yet” hanging there.
He shifts, propping his phone against something so I can see more of him—chest rising and falling, hand dragging over his face. “Do it,” he says quietly. “Touch yourself for me. I want you to pretend I am there. Tell me where you’d put my hands. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Only if you do it with me.”
Miguel’s lip quirks into a smirk. “Like I’d let you have all the fun. You wanna see it, baby? You miss your cock?” He picks up the phone and turns the camera around and his mouthwatering cock fills the screen. Hard, thick and having me wish it was inside me right now.
My other hand finally moves, sliding under the waistband of my shorts. Even that tiny act feels huge.
“Miggy…”
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Close your eyes if you need to. Just listen to me, okay? Breathe with me. In and out. And tell me what feels good.”
My hand wraps around my dick, and I can’t stop the shaky gasp that escapes me. It feels so much better with him watching, talking me through it.
