Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“Do you want me to show you?”
“Video call?” I ask, already reaching for the button. “Fuck yes.”
A few seconds later, my phone lights up with her video. When I accept, it’s the best night ever.
She’s exactly where I want her.
In my bed.
Her chestnut hair is fanned out over my pillow, four little dogs wedged at her sides like they belong there. Like she belongs there.
In that moment, I know two things: I’m inextricably fucked, and I don’t care about anything but stealing moment after moment with this woman.
We talk longer—about the calendar, the game, her dinner, the view, my mom’s cruise, and a million other things. It feels like we’ve slipped into our own world, warm and hazy, where nothing else matters.
But then, she abruptly says, “I have to go.”
It takes me a second to process, to connect this cozy moment with her sudden shift. Reality hits—sour, unwelcome. We don’t have a relationship. She probably really does have to go.
“Okay. Good night,” I say, keeping my tone all business.
“Good night,” she replies softly, and then the line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, like I can find some kind of answer in it. Like it’s a magical device that can replay her voice and translate her words into what I want them to mean. That she’s found that portal, and it’s not just a sex portal—it’s a romance one too.
Like I want desperately.
But it’s quiet. Silent. No insight into her, no window into her thoughts.
Sighing, I climb out of bed, head to the bathroom, and go through the motions of getting ready to sleep. My mind keeps circling back to her—the way she sounded, the way the call ended too soon.
Then, this longing in my chest. This gnawing desire to talk to her, to be a part of her world, to see her, hear her, touch her.
Get it together, man.
I resolve to go to sleep and reset my mind in the morning. But when I return to bed, a notification on my phone blinks up at me.
Dog-cam: Person detected.
My first instinct is to ignore it. But then—fuck it—I tap the notification without thinking twice.
And there she is.
Leighton’s in the living room, standing purposefully in front of the camera, like she’s checking out her reflection. She’s wearing my jersey.
My jersey—my fucking jersey—hangs off her shoulders, the hem brushing her bare thighs. She shifts, her fingers teasing at the fabric, lifting it just enough to make my heart pound.
She knows I’m watching.
The way she looks into the camera, her lips quirking in the faintest smile—it’s not just casual. It’s deliberate.
My chest burns hot, and I can’t look away.
She’s not stripping. Not yet.
But this?
This is for me.
32
DOG FACETIME
Miles
I stare so hard I’m pretty sure I’ve stopped breathing. I can’t look away. I can’t stop. The scene unfolding in front of me is every fantasy I’ve ever had about Leighton come to life. She closes her eyes and lets a hand drift down the fabric of my jersey, her fingers brushing over the number twenty-one, then teasing the top of her panties.
They’re black. Lacy.
My body roars with need, heat surging through me at the thought of stripping them off her.
But she’s setting the pace—slow, deliberate, deliciously torturous. It’s a striptease that’s like honey, a drizzle of sweetness that’s driving me insane. She tugs at the hem of the jersey, inching it up, up, up, revealing a sliver of pale skin. Then more.
When she reaches the bottom of her breasts, my throat goes desert dry. The lower curves of those perfect globes peek out, and it’s enough to wreck me completely. I make a sound—raw, feral, full of need.
She smiles. She knows what she’s doing to me even if we aren’t talking.
And then—just as she starts to pull the jersey over her head—the camera blinks off.
What the fuck?
An alert flashes on my home camera system. Dog-cam: Offline.
I’m not just turned on anymore; now I’m worried. My pulse is a mix of lust and panic as I call her immediately.
She doesn’t answer.
The worry tightens in my chest for the longest thirty seconds of my life—until a new notification pops up.
Dog-cam: Online.
Merry fucking Christmas to me.
Leighton’s in my bed, sitting on her knees, picking up right where she left off. The dogs are off the bed. Thank fuck.
With one swift, seductive motion, she pulls my jersey over her head and tosses it aside, leaving her bare from the waist up. Her gorgeous tits bounce and my mouth waters.
I’m done for.
Wait. Nope. Make that I’m absolutely ruined when she leans forward, her face closer to the camera and she slowly lifts a finger, making a shushing sound.
“Sweetheart, I’ll be so goddamn quiet,” I mutter to myself as she turns around and crawls across to the nightstand, giving me a perfect view of her ass, covered mostly in black lace. When she spins to face me, she’s running her hand along a thick, peach vibrator made from sustainable plastic, and the look on her face is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.