Chapter 15 Quicky Express
"Alex...."
“No, let me finish.” His voice dropped, low and dangerous.
“I’ve been hard for you since takeoff. Every time the plane hit turbulence, I imagined it was you riding me. Every time someone said my name today, I heard you screaming it instead.” He paused, swallowing.
“I called because I needed to hear your voice. Because I’m losing my goddamn mind.”
Her free hand slid beneath the sheet, fingers brushing the damp lace between her legs. She was already wet just from his voice, just from the memory.
“I’m touching myself,” she whispered, unashamed.
“Right now. Thinking about how you bent me over in the shower. How you made me watch in the mirror while you–”
A guttural sound tore from his throat. He braced one hand on the window, forehead against the cool glass, the city blurring.
“Jesus, Soph. Tell me.”
Her voice came out breathy, half-whisper, half-moan.
“I’m on my knees on the bed, Alex. Phone in one hand, the other” She broke off with a shaky exhale. “Two fingers inside me. I’m so wet I can hear it. I keep thinking about the way you held my hips this morning, how deep you went when you.”
Alex’s grip on the phone turned white-knuckled. His reflection stared back from the dark glass, shirt open, chest rising fast, pupils blown.
“Slow, circle your clit for me. Don’t you dare come yet.” He growled.
Sophia whimpered, obeying. The pad of her middle finger slid over the swollen bundle of nerves, slick and pulsing.
“Feels like your tongue. But not enough. Never enough,” she gasped.
She could hear the clink of ice in his glass and the soft thud as he set it down. Then the unmistakable rasp of a zipper.
He palmed himself through his trousers first, then freed his cock hard, flushed, and already leaking.
“Put me on speaker. I want both your hands,” he ordered.
She tapped the button, phone on the pillow. The room filled with the wet sounds of her fingers, the creak of the mattress, and her ragged breathing.
“Alex, i…”
“Tell me what you’re wearing.”
“Nothing. Just your marks.” She arched, breasts brushing the cool sheet, nipples tight.
“The one on my neck is darker now. I can see it when I turn on the lamp.”
He stroked himself once, slow, his thumb smearing the bead of pre-come over the head.
“Turn the lamp on. I want you to see yourself while you fuck your fingers and pretend it’s me.”
The click of the switch. Soft amber light spilled over her skin, bruises blooming purple and red, thighs trembling, fingers buried deep.
“I look wrecked because of you,” she said.
“Show me.”
She angled the phone and hit video. The screen filled with her: flushed cheeks, parted lips, and fingers glistening as they pumped in and out.
Alex’s breath hissed through his teeth. He angled his own camera down, cock in hand, veins standing out, the city lights glittering behind him like a halo he didn’t deserve.
“Look what you do to me, Soph. Look how fucking hard I am for you in the middle of Paris.
She moaned at the sight, hips rocking faster.
“I want you here. I want you to replace my fingers with your cock and…”
“Stop.” His voice cracked like a whip.
“Pull them out. Taste yourself. Then tell me how much you miss my mouth.”
She did slowly, deliberately bringing slick fingers to her lips, tongue curling around them, eyes locked on his through the screen.
“I miss you licking me clean after you come inside me. I miss the way you growl my name when you’re close.”
He was stroking faster now, the slap of skin faint but unmistakable.
“Spread your legs wider. Let me see how empty you are without me.”
She did, knees falling open, the camera catching every slick inch.
“Please, Alex…”
“Come for me. Right now. Scream my name so the whole fucking dorm knows who you belong to.”
Her back bowed off the bed, fingers plunging deep, thumb frantic on her clit.
“Alex fuck… Alex!” The orgasm hit hard, thighs clamping around her hand, walls fluttering around nothing.
He followed seconds later, hips jerking, cum streaking across his abs in thick ropes as her name tore from his throat, raw, possessive, helpless.
Silence stretched, broken only by their breathing.
Alex wiped his hand on his shirt, not caring.
“Forty-five hours,” he rasped. “Then I’m on the first flight out. And Soph?”
She was still trembling, phone clutched to her chest.
“Yeah?”
“Leave the marks. I want to add to them the second I walk through your door.”
Sophia’s phone slipped from her fingers to the mattress, screen still glowing with the frozen image of Alex’s cum-streaked abs. Her chest heaved, thighs slick and trembling, the room thick with the scent of her own release.
She stared at the ceiling, heart hammering so loud she was sure the girl in the next room could hear it.
Alex dropped the phone onto the marble table, the clatter echoing in the cavernous suite. His hand was still sticky, his shirt ruined, but he didn’t move to clean up. He wanted the mess. Wanted the proof.
He lit a cigarette (something he hadn’t done in years), the flare of the lighter briefly illuminating the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the wild glint in his eyes. Smoke curled toward the ceiling like a confession.
Sophia finally rolled onto her side, pressing her face into the pillow that still smelled faintly of his cologne from the last time he’d stayed over. She whispered into the dark:
“Forty-five hours.”
Her fingers drifted to the bruise on her neck, pressing until it stung. A promise. A countdown.
Alex exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it dissolve against the glass. He opened his laptop, pulled up the airline site, and booked the earliest flight out of Charles de Gaulle.
Departure: 06:10 a.m.
Arrival: London Heathrow 06:45 a.m. local.
He didn’t cancel the morning meeting. He just wouldn’t be there.
Sophia’s phone buzzed again.
Alex (4:12 a.m.):Flight lands at 6:45. Be naked. Door unlocked. I’m not waiting.
She smiled into the pillow, slow and wicked.
Sophia (4:13 a.m.) I’ll be dripping for you. Bring the city with you.
She set an alarm for 5:30.
Then she slipped her fingers between her legs one last time, tasting him on her tongue, and let the aftershocks lull her into a shallow, hungry sleep.
Alex stubbed out the cigarette, stripped off the ruined shirt, and lay on the too-big bed fully clothed. He didn’t bother with blankets. He stared at the ceiling and counted the hours like a man counting bullets.
Forty-two to go.