Long Distance Desire

The lock on his apartment door clicked shut with a dead, final sound that echoed the day’s failures. Kurt dropped his briefcase by the door, the thud muffled by a week’s worth of unopened mail. He didn’t bother with the lights. The sprawling, indifferent glow of Manhattan bled through his floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the polished hardwood floors. It was a view that had once made him feel powerful, on top of the world. Tonight, it just made him feel small and exposed.

He loosened the knot of his tie, the silk a goddamn noose he’d been wearing for fourteen hours straight. Every muscle in his back and shoulders screamed in protest. It was the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from smiling while your candidate imploded on live television, from spinning horseshit into something vaguely palatable for the morning news cycle, from knowing, with gut-sinking certainty, that the campaign was a dead man walking. They were hemorrhaging money, polling in the single digits, and their latest 'bold' policy announcement had been met with a collective, national shrug. Fucking pointless.

Kurt walked to the wet bar, his reflection a tired ghost in the mirrored backsplash. He looked like shit. Dark circles under his eyes, a tension in his jaw that hadn't eased in months. He grabbed a heavy crystal tumbler and poured three fingers of Islay Scotch, the peaty smell of it a familiar comfort. He took a long swallow, letting the burn sear a path down his throat, a welcome distraction from the loop of fuck-ups playing in his head.

His phone buzzed on the granite countertop, a fresh wave of anxiety jolting through him. Another email from the campaign manager, probably. Another fire to put out. He ignored it. He ignored all of it. The noise, the pressure, the relentless, grinding defeat.

In the quiet of his apartment, a thousand miles from the political machine chewing him up and spitting him out, there was only one thing he wanted. One person.

His thumb swiped across the screen, muscle memory guiding him past news alerts and work-related group chats until he found her name. Addison. Just seeing it there seemed to lower his blood pressure. He could already hear her voice, that warm Texas drawl cutting through the New York static in his brain, sharp and clear and real. She was the only real thing left most days.

He took another drink, the whiskey warming his belly, and sank onto the leather sofa. Outside, the city pulsed with millions of lives, a universe of noise and ambition. But all of it faded away. He needed her counsel, her wit, her uncanny ability to tell him he was being an idiot without making him feel like one. He needed to hear her laugh, a sound that could make even a day like this feel survivable.

It was more than a ritual; it was a lifeline. He hit the call button, the electronic tone ringing out in the silence, a signal sent across the country into the late Texas night. He held his breath, waiting for her to pick up, waiting for the one voice that could make sense of the chaos.

“Another five-alarm fire at campaign headquarters?” Her voice was exactly as he’d imagined it: a low, honeyed drawl that immediately cut through the Scotch-induced haze.

Addison was sitting cross-legged on the floor of her Austin apartment, surrounded by a fortress of legal binders and scattered exhibits. A highlighter was tucked behind her ear, and a half-empty mug of coffee sat cooling on the hardwood beside her. She’d been staring at the same deposition transcript for an hour, the words blurring into nonsense, until Kurt’s name lit up her screen. It was an immediate reprieve.

“Worse,” Kurt groaned, the sound crackling with static and exhaustion. “The candidate tried to relate to blue-collar voters by talking about his summer job in college. Turns out his ‘job’ was overseeing the landscaping at his father’s country club for twenty grand a month. It was a goddamn bloodbath on cable news.”

Addison let out a short, sharp laugh. “Jesus, Kurt. You can’t spin that. That’s not a gaffe, that’s a fucking character flaw. You need to tell him to stop trying to cosplay as a human being.”

“I told him that. He said my negativity was ‘harshing his authentic vibe.’”

“His authentic vibe is that of a sentient bag of lukewarm mayonnaise. You should get that on a bumper sticker.”

A real laugh finally broke from him, a rough, tired sound, but it was real. “God, I fucking needed to hear your voice.” He took a drink, the clink of ice against glass a familiar sound across the miles. “Polling is in the toilet. We’re officially less popular than Nickelback and colonoscopies.”

“High praise,” she deadpanned, leaning back against her sofa and tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder. She picked up a stray pen, tapping it against a binder labeled Peterson v. Sterling Corp. “Well, while you were babysitting the compost pile that is your candidate’s ego, I actually accomplished something today.”

His tone shifted instantly, the weariness replaced by genuine interest. “Oh yeah? Don’t leave me in suspense. Did you finally get that asshole Sterling to admit he knowingly sold faulty heart valves?”

“Not yet. But I did get his entire internal email server admitted into evidence. The one his lawyers swore up and down was ‘irretrievably corrupted in a server migration.’”

Kurt let out a low whistle. “No fucking way. How?”

“I found the IT guy who did the ‘migration.’ Turns out he’s got a nasty gambling problem and Sterling Corp stiffed him on his severance. For a couple grand and a promise of immunity, he was more than happy to provide us with a pristine, uncorrupted backup. He even gift-wrapped the emails where Sterling calls the FDA regulators ‘toothless old eunuchs.’” A grin spread across her face, the thrill of the victory still fresh. “Their lead counsel looked like he was going to vomit all over his two-thousand-dollar shoes.”

“Addy, that is fucking brilliant,” Kurt said, his voice full of an uncomplicated pride that made her chest ache. The exhaustion was gone from his tone, replaced by the focused intensity she knew so well. It was the voice he used when he was genuinely engaged, when something truly captured his intellect. For the last ten years, she had been one of those things. “Tell me everything. I want a full, unadulterated play-by-play of the moment his face fell. Did he go pale? Did he start sweating? I need details.”

She laughed, settling in. His problems, her triumphs, it didn’t matter. It all just flowed together, a continuous conversation that had been going on for a decade. The miles between them dissolved. It was just Kurt and Addison, the way it always was. “Alright, get comfortable,” she began, “it started when Judge Miller asked Mr. Henderson to please repeat his assertion for the record…”

She walked him through the entire exchange, her voice animated, mimicking the judge’s dry tone and the opposing counsel’s sputtering outrage. Kurt listened, completely absorbed, interjecting with sharp questions and appreciative laughter. When she finished, he let out a long, slow breath.

“God, Addy. It’s like watching a master at work. You haven’t lost a step.” He paused, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “You know, this reminds me of Albright’s seminar. The final presentation on campaign finance reform.”

Addison’s own smile widened. “Oh god. Don’t remind me. You were dying up there.”

“I was not dying,” he protested, but there was no heat in it. “I was executing a complex, nuanced argument that was perhaps… ahead of its time.”

“You were drowning in your own talking points,” she shot back, her voice laced with laughter. “You had three different colored notecards and you kept mixing them up. You looked like you were trying to land a 747 in a hurricane. I thought you were going to pass out.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Okay, fine. I was bombing. Hard. I remember looking out at the class and all I could see was Albright’s smug fucking face, just waiting to fail me. And then I saw you, in the third row.”

“I was trying not to laugh,” she admitted.

“No, you weren’t. You caught my eye and you just… mouthed the word ‘simplify.’ So I threw away the goddamn notecards. I just started talking. I used that stupid analogy you came up with the night before, about the bake sale.”

“The PTA bake sale versus a corporate fundraiser,” she supplied, the memory as clear as if it were yesterday. They’d been crammed into a study carrel in the library, surrounded by empty coffee cups, the air thick with the smell of old books and desperation. He’d been trying to memorize statistics; she’d been telling him to tell a story.

“Exactly,” he said, his voice softer now, stripped of the earlier bravado. “And it worked. I just talked to them. I passed. Barely. But I passed.” He was quiet for a moment. “You saved my ass, Addy. You’ve always been good at that. Cutting through my bullshit and finding the one simple thing that actually matters.”

The compliment landed squarely in her chest, warm and heavy. “You just get lost in the weeds sometimes, Kurt. You’re the smartest guy I know, but you think everyone else is, too. My job is to remind you that most people, even political science professors, just want the simple truth.”

“It’s more than that,” he said, and the shift in his tone was unmistakable. The humor was gone, replaced by a raw sincerity that always managed to catch her off guard. “It’s not just about simplifying things. It’s… you’re my anchor. When I’m spinning out, like tonight, you’re the one person who can talk me off the ledge. I don’t know what the fuck I’d do without that.”

The admission hung in the air between them, charged and intimate. The thousands of miles of static and fiber optic cable seemed to melt away, leaving only his voice, low and essential, right there in her ear. Her own fortress of legal binders felt like a flimsy defense against the sudden wave of emotion that washed over her.

“It goes both ways, you know,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended. “You were the only one who didn’t think I was a cold-hearted bitch for wanting to go into corporate law instead of working for some non-profit. You said I had a killer instinct and should get paid for it.”

“Because you do,” he said, without hesitation. “And I’m always going to be your biggest fan.”

The words settled between them, more substantial than the thousands of miles of wire and air that separated them. Your biggest fan. It wasn’t a casual compliment; it was a statement of fact, a role he’d held for a decade without question. A warmth bloomed deep in Addison’s belly, spreading through her limbs until the chill of her air-conditioned apartment was a distant memory.

“I know,” she finally managed to say, her voice barely a whisper. She could picture him perfectly: sitting on that worn leather sofa, a glass of whiskey in his hand, the skyline of a city she’d only visited a handful of times glittering behind him. The image was so clear it hurt.

A comfortable silence fell, not awkward, but full. It was the kind of quiet they had learned to share, a space where all the things they didn’t say could still be felt.

“I should let you sleep,” Kurt said eventually, his voice rough with fatigue again. “You have asses to kick tomorrow. And I have to go figure out how to put out a dumpster fire with a water pistol.”

“You’ll figure it out,” she said, her confidence in him absolute. “You always do.” She hesitated, wanting to say more, wanting to keep him on the line just a little longer, to hold onto the connection that felt so tangible right now. But the day was over. The call had served its purpose. “Get some rest, Kurt.”

“You too, Addy.” There was a finality in his tone, but also a promise. “Talk tomorrow.”

“Always,” she replied.

The line went dead. The sudden silence in her apartment was jarring. For a long moment, Addison just sat there on the floor, the phone still pressed to her ear as if she could absorb some residual trace of him. The legal binders surrounding her, monuments to her ambition and success, suddenly felt like little more than colorful stacks of paper. Her massive victory in court today, the thing that should have been the sole focus of her joy, felt muted, incomplete. It was a win she had needed to share with him to make it fully real.

She finally stood, her limbs stiff, and walked to her kitchen to pour a glass of water. Her reflection in the dark window showed a woman who had everything she’d ever worked for. A successful career, a beautiful apartment, a life she had meticulously built for herself. But the familiar warmth spreading through her chest wasn’t from any of that. It was from him. It was a warmth that had nothing to do with Texas heat and everything to do with a voice from New York City, a voice that knew her better than anyone else. And with that warmth came a slow, creeping ache—the undeniable recognition of the distance.

Across the country, Kurt stood up from the sofa and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window of his apartment. The city was a sprawling galaxy of light, a relentless, glittering machine that demanded everything and gave back a cold, anonymous beauty. He’d wanted this, fought for this life in the center of the universe. Tonight, it just made him feel profoundly alone.

He finished his whiskey, but the burn in his throat did nothing to chase away the feeling her voice had left behind. Her laughter, her sharp intellect, the unwavering belief in her tone when she’d said, “You’ll figure it out.” It was a more potent drug than any alcohol or political victory. For ten years, she had been his constant, his true north. The calls were their ritual, a lifeline he’d come to depend on more than he ever admitted, even to himself.

Staring out at the millions of windows, each containing a life, a story, he felt the weight of the space between his and hers. It wasn’t just miles. It was a chasm he filled every night with the sound of her voice. He wondered, as he often did after they hung up, what it would be like to not have to hang up at all. To turn from the window and see her there, curled up on his sofa. The thought was so powerful, so vivid, that for a second, the entire city outside seemed to fade to black, leaving only the sharp, painful longing for a woman a thousand miles away.

The steak was cooked to a perfect medium-rare, the wine was an expensive Cabernet he wouldn’t shut up about, and the man across the table was so mind-numbingly dull that Addison was contemplating faking a seizure just to create some excitement. His name was Mark. He was a partner at another firm, specializing in something so tedious involving land deeds and mineral rights that her brain had started to actively reject the information ten minutes ago.

“...and the beauty of the LLC,” he was saying, gesturing with a fork that held a single, sad-looking asparagus spear, “is the liability shield. It’s elegant, really. Airtight.”

Addison took a slow sip of her wine, letting the alcohol burn a path down her throat. She’d put on the black dress for this. The one that was simple but devastating, clinging to her hips and showing off the curve of her calves. She’d spent an hour on her hair and makeup. For this. For a lecture on corporate structures.

She looked at Mark. He had nice teeth, she supposed. And his suit was definitely expensive. But his eyes were completely vacant, like he was reciting a script he’d performed a hundred times. She wondered if he was even looking at her, or just at a vaguely woman-shaped space where he could project his monologue about tort reform. Her skin felt tight, not with excitement, but with a desperate need to escape. Under the table, her knee bounced with a frantic energy.

Kurt would be eviscerating this guy, she thought, and the idea was so potent it was almost a physical presence at the table. He’d have a nickname for him by now. Mr. Liability Shield. Captain Airtight. He’d be texting her ruthless commentary under the table, making her bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud. The thought made the chasm of her boredom feel even wider and deeper. The man in front of her was a black-and-white photograph. Kurt was a high-definition, surround-sound movie.

“Are you okay?” Mark asked, his brow furrowing in what was probably meant to be concern. “You seem a little… distracted.”

“Just a headache coming on,” she lied, pressing her fingers to her temple for effect. It wasn’t even a complete lie. The sheer tedium was giving her one. “I think the barometric pressure is shifting.”

He nodded sagely. “Happens to my mother. She can always tell when a front is moving in.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“You know what,” Addison said, placing her napkin on the table with an air of finality. “I’m so sorry, but this is turning into a real migraine. I think I need to call it a night before it gets worse.”

Relief, pure and simple, flickered across his face before he could mask it with disappointment. He was as bored as she was. The realization wasn’t insulting; it was just pathetic. They were two people going through the motions, ticking a box on the adult checklist: Attempted to find a suitable partner. Failed.

He insisted on walking her to her car after a brief, awkward dance over who would pay the bill (he did, with a self-satisfied flourish). The night air was thick and humid, clinging to her skin. The valet brought her Lexus around, and Mark placed a clammy hand on the small of her back. She had to actively fight the urge to flinch away.

“I’ll call you,” he said, leaning in. For one horrifying second, she thought he was going to try and kiss her. She took a half-step back, using the opening of her car door as a shield.

“You do that,” she said, her smile feeling brittle enough to crack.

She slid into the driver’s seat, the leather cool against her thighs, and shut the door on his bland, hopeful face. She didn’t start the car. She just sat there in the silence of the parking garage, the scent of expensive steak and cheap cologne clinging to her. Her body hummed with a frustrated, restless energy. All that effort, all that anticipation for a night out, and for what? To feel more alone than when she’d been at home working.

Her hand moved on its own, grabbing her phone from her purse. Her thumb found Kurt’s contact before her brain even caught up. It was late in New York, after eleven, but she didn’t care. The pretense she’d used on Mark—a headache—was gone. The pretense she needed for Kurt was ready. I need a laugh. But it was more than that. She needed to wash the taste of this night out of her mouth. She needed to hear his voice. She needed to feel like herself again.

She pressed the call button and lifted the phone to her ear, the ringing tone a frantic pulse against her skin. One ring. Two.

“Addy?” His voice was thick with sleep, low and rough. The sound of it hit her directly in the stomach, a jolt of pure relief.

“Oh, thank god,” she breathed out, leaning her head back against the headrest. “You will not believe the date I just escaped from.”

A low chuckle rumbled through the phone line. “Let me guess. He talked about his portfolio.”

“Worse,” she said, the words spilling out in a rush. “He gave me a ten-minute lecture on the elegance of the liability shield provided by an LLC. He called it ‘airtight.’ I was wearing the black dress, Kurt. The one with the low back. For a guy who probably fucks his tax returns.”

Kurt’s laugh was exactly what she needed—sharp and genuine. “Jesus. Captain Airtight strikes again. Did he gesture with his fork while explaining the nuances of tort reform?”

“Like he was conducting a fucking symphony of boredom. And he compared my migraine to his mother’s ability to predict the weather.”

“No,” Kurt groaned, and she could picture him perfectly, running a hand over his face, his eyes squeezed shut in secondhand agony. “Addy, I’m so sorry. You should have invoked your emergency extraction protocol. I would have called you with a fake political crisis.”

“I thought about it,” she admitted, a real smile finally touching her lips. The tension in her shoulders eased, the memory of Mark’s clammy hand and vacant eyes already fading, replaced by the warm, familiar cadence of Kurt’s voice. “But I handled it. I faked a headache and ran.”

“My hero,” he said, his voice still laced with amusement. The laughter slowly subsided, leaving a more intimate quiet in its place. The engine of a car starting somewhere in the parking garage was the only other sound.

“Why’d you even go?” Kurt asked, his tone shifting from playful to serious. The question was soft, but it landed with precision.

Addison sighed, the sound heavy with the truth she hadn’t wanted to admit even to herself. “Because I’m tired of my apartment being so quiet, I guess. I’m tired of… this. The whole thing. Working all day, coming home, eating alone, going to sleep. Repeat. I just wanted to feel something different for a night.”

The silence on his end stretched, and she knew he understood. He wasn't going to offer a platitude or a simple fix. He was going to meet her in it.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice a low murmur that seemed to travel straight down her spine. “I get that. My place is so empty it fucking echoes.”

“I just… I get so lonely sometimes, Kurt,” she confessed, the words quiet and raw in the confines of her car. “It’s this physical thing. An ache.”

“I know,” he said, and the simple affirmation was everything. “I know the feeling. You go out and you try, you put on the suit or the dress, and you sit there across from someone and you realize you’ve never felt more alone in your entire life.”

“Exactly,” she whispered. Her hand tightened on the steering wheel. “I spent an hour getting ready. I actually felt… hot. For what? For a lecture on corporate law and a pitying look when I said I had a headache.” She let out a humorless laugh. “God, I just wanted to get laid. Is that so pathetic?”

“Not pathetic at all,” he said, his voice dropping even lower, losing its sleepy rasp and taking on a darker texture. “It’s human.” A beat of silence. “It’s been a while for me, too.”

“How long?” she found herself asking, the question slipping out before she could stop it. They’d never talked like this. Never this directly.

He was quiet for a second. “Long enough that I don’t really remember what it’s like to touch someone who isn’t me,” he admitted, his honesty a punch to her gut. “Long enough that the idea of just having a woman’s skin under my hands feels like a fucking fantasy.”

The air in her car suddenly felt thick, charged with the unspoken things hanging between them. The sterile leather of her driver’s seat, the faint scent of Mark’s cologne, it all vanished. There was only Kurt’s voice, a low thrum of frustration and need that mirrored her own so perfectly it hurt.

“I know,” she breathed, her own frustration a coiled knot in her stomach. “I’m so fucking tired of my vibrator, Kurt. It does the job, but it’s just… noise and plastic. There’s no heat. No weight of someone else on top of you. I just want to be touched by another person. I want to be pinned down and fucked until I can’t think anymore.”

The admission hung in the air, stark and explicit. She heard him take a sharp breath on the other end of the line, a small, involuntary sound of intake that did something visceral to her insides, making the ache between her legs pulse with a sudden, shocking intensity.

His voice, when it finally came, was completely different. The last remnants of sleep and friendly concern were gone, stripped away and replaced by something guttural and low, a dark velvet texture that slid directly from the phone into the base of her skull.

“Fuck, Addy,” he breathed. It wasn't a curse; it was a prayer. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

“I mean it,” she whispered, her own voice shaky. Her nipples were tight points against the silk lining of her dress, the friction suddenly unbearable. “I’m so tired of pretending I don’t.”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the charge of a decade of unspoken things. She could hear the faint sound of him shifting, the rustle of sheets, maybe. He was in his bed. The image flashed in her mind—Kurt, bare-chested under a single sheet, his phone pressed to his ear, his body reacting to her words. The thought alone made a fresh wave of heat wash through her, pooling low in her belly.

“Addison,” he said, and the use of her full name was a shock to her system. He rarely used it. It sounded formal and yet intensely intimate on his lips. “What are you wearing right now? You said the black dress.”

Her breath caught in her throat. This was it. The line. They were standing on opposite sides of it, and he was holding out a hand, asking her to cross. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm. This was Kurt. Her best friend. Her anchor. And he was about to become something else entirely. Something dangerous.

“Yes,” she managed to say, her voice barely audible. “The black one.”

“The one with the low back?” he pressed, his voice a possessive murmur. “Describe it to me.”

She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the leather headrest. The parking garage around her faded away. There was only the darkness behind her eyelids and his voice. “It’s… it’s crepe,” she said, her fingers tracing the neckline. “It’s sleeveless. The straps are thin. It scoops low in the front, but the back… the back is almost entirely open. Down to my waist.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, a low, rough sound of appreciation. “I can see it. Is that all you have on?”

“Pantyhose,” she admitted, feeling a blush creep up her neck. “And a black thong underneath.”

“Take the pantyhose off,” he commanded. The words weren't a suggestion. They were a raw, quiet order.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the hem of her dress. The car was a small, private bubble of darkness. No one could see her. There was only Kurt, thousands of miles away, his voice a tangible presence in the small space. She hiked the dress up to her hips, the cool air of the car’s AC hitting her bare thighs. With fumbling movements, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the hose and peeled them down her legs, kicking off her heels to pull them free. The rustle of the nylon was deafeningly loud in the quiet.

“They’re off,” she breathed, her skin prickling with goosebumps. She was sitting in her car in an underground parking garage, half-undressed, with her best friend on the phone. A giddy, terrified thrill shot through her.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and the praise sent a jolt straight between her legs. “Now, tell me what you’d rather be doing. Not sitting in that car. Tell me what you want, Addy. Right now. If I was there with you.”

“I’d be at home,” she whispered, her imagination taking over. “I’d have poured a glass of whiskey. I’d be standing in my living room, waiting for you.”

“And I’d walk in,” he picked up, his voice thick with a fantasy that was clearly already playing in his own head. “I wouldn’t even say hello. I’d walk right up to you, put my hands on your waist, and turn you around so your back was to me. I’d run my fingers right down the edge of that dress, tracing your spine. All that bare skin.”

She moaned, a soft, involuntary sound. Her hips shifted in the driver’s seat, a restless ache building in her core. Her clit was already swelling, a hard, needy pulse against the thin silk of her thong.

“I’d lean in and kiss the nape of your neck,” he continued, his voice a hypnotic rumble. “Right below your hairline. Then I’d slide those thin straps off your shoulders, one at a time, and let the top of that dress fall to your waist. I’d cup your tits from behind, feel how hard your nipples are for me through the fabric of your bra… but you’re not wearing one, are you, Addy?”

“No,” she breathed, the word a ghost of a sound. “No bra.”

A low, animalistic growl rumbled through the phone, vibrating deep inside her chest. “I knew it. I’d squeeze them, roll your nipples between my fingers until you were arching back into my cock. You’d feel how hard I am for you, pressing right into the small of your back.”

Her eyes squeezed shut tighter. She could almost feel it—the heat of his body, the pressure of his erection against her. A pathetic little whimper escaped her lips.

“I want you to touch yourself for me, Addy,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a raw, conspiratorial whisper. “Slide your hand down. Go on. Under your thong.”

Her hand, which had been resting on her thigh, trembled as she moved it lower. The fabric of her dress was bunched at her hips. She slipped her fingers beneath the thin strip of her thong, her own heat and wetness a shock against her cold skin. Her fingers slid right into the slick folds.

“Kurt,” she gasped, her hips bucking in the seat. “I’m so wet.”

“I know you are. I can hear it in your voice,” he said, his own breathing growing harsh. “I want to taste it. My cock is so fucking hard for you right now, Addison. I’m holding it in my hand, stroking it while I listen to you. It’s dripping, just thinking about being inside you.”

The image was so vivid, so brutally hot, it stole the air from her lungs. Kurt, in his bed, his hand wrapped around his cock, for her.

“Put two fingers inside yourself,” he instructed, his voice thick and demanding. “Feel how wet you are for me. Feel how tight you’d be.”

She obeyed without thinking, pushing two fingers into her slick heat. Her own muscles clenched around them, and she cried out, a sharp, needy sound. “Oh, God.”

“That’s it,” he praised, his voice a rough caress. “Now, with your thumb… find your clit. I want you to rub it. Fast. While you fuck yourself with your fingers.”

She did, her thumb circling the hard nub, sending lightning bolts of pleasure straight to her core. Her head fell back against the headrest, her mouth falling open as she panted. The sounds she was making were shameless, animal.

“Tell me you want me to fuck you,” he grunted, the sound of his own pace quickening on his end. “Tell me you want me to stretch you open and pound into you until you can’t see straight.”

“I want you to fuck me,” she sobbed, the words torn from her throat. Her hips pumped against her own hand in a frantic rhythm, chasing the feeling that was building, coiling tighter and tighter in her belly. “Kurt, please, I want you to fuck me so hard.”

“I’d pin you down on your bed, pull your legs up to your shoulders, and slide right into you,” he growled, his voice a torrent of filth and promise. “I’d fuck you deep. I’d watch your face while I made you come, then I’d flip you over and take you from behind, pulling your hair, sinking my teeth into your shoulder…”

It was too much. The dirty words, the sound of his voice, the feel of her own fingers inside her slick cunt—it all converged into a single, blinding point of light behind her eyes.

“I’m going to come,” she gasped, her whole body tensing. “Kurt, I’m so close.”

“Come for me, Addy,” he commanded, his voice breaking. “Let me hear you fall apart. Fucking scream for me.”

And she did. Her back arched off the driver’s seat as the orgasm ripped through her, a violent, shuddering wave that made her cry out his name. She felt the hot gush of her release spill over her fingers, her entire body convulsing as she came, and came, and came. Through the haze of her own climax, she heard a final, ragged groan from his end, a guttural sound of release that was unequivocally his.

The aftermath was a deafening silence, broken only by her own ragged, sobbing breaths. Her body slumped in the seat, trembling and boneless. Her fingers were sticky, her thighs damp. The phone was still pressed to her ear, a conduit to the man who had just dismantled her world from a thousand miles away.

“Addy?” His voice was a wrecked whisper.

She couldn’t form words. A shaky, wet breath was all she could manage. A click sounded in her ear, and the line went dead. She was alone in the quiet, cavernous dark of the parking garage, every line they had ever drawn between them not just blurred, but utterly annihilated.