Trading Tides Read Online Free Page B

of frame. My knee bumped against the bed and I whined, wriggling out of my skirt and tights. I still smelled the laundry detergent in my sheets, the lavender-scented candle that was supposed to help me sleep.  
    "Are you okay?" He was trying not to laugh and it struck me as so funny, I tried to barricade my throat against the giggle that was brewing in my stomach. It was no use though, and he joined in, loud and barking. His laughter was like a physical sensation, I don't know how else to describe it, but there were only a few things that made him feel closer, more like he was right there with me.
    "Yes, Sir," I finally answered, beaming at the camera. I realized then that my eyes were open and that wiped the smile off my face so fast, his laughter doubled. Maybe we were terrible at this Skype sex thing—or maybe, just maybe, we were amazing.  
    "Leave your eyes open. I want you to see this, too. Show me."
    I exhaled an audible breath, then reached between my legs. Even the passing touch that brushed over my clit made me moan. I wasn't usually so loud, but something in Paul brought it out of me. It heightened the sensation—to vocalize it like that.
    When my fingers reemerged, they were both coated thickly in viscous fluid. It glittered in the overhead lighting and Paul told me to hold it closer to the camera. I could see him smiling wistfully, and I was almost sure that we were thinking about the same thing: that evening at his house when he'd spread me out on his kitchen table to feast on me.
    I shivered at the memory.
    "Taste it," he whispered. Again, I could hardly hear him, but it wasn't necessary. I'd read his desire in his eyes. "Lick them clean for me, pet. Like you'd lick my cock clean."
    I held my breath, relished that moment of anticipation, of imagining him here. I would kneel, not stand, and he would be bigger, better—he would smell like Paul and then he'd push his cock deep into my mouth and all thought would stop.  
    My mouth watered and when I finally brought my fingers to my lips, my mind was ready to accept the pretense with ease. I sucked them into my mouth, tasted salt and need. It was my kind of salt, not his, but in my state of mind the difference was negligible.
    "Am I still there with you?" he asked, and I looked up at the hoarseness in his tone. There was an aching quality to his eyes, it flickered past, hurt somewhere deep in my chest, and then he smiled again as though it had never been there at all.
    I nodded.
    "What do I taste like?"
    "Me..." I whispered. "You taste like me, Sir."
    "Yes, I do." There was a pause, a long one, and I let my hands fall back to my sides. The tips of my hair brushed over my shoulders, then my neck, like a feather in his hand. "Pick up the laptop again, take me to bed with you. Don't forget the headset."
    I took a deep breath, nodded and a smile crossed my face. It was the way he phrased it, of course, that brought the ache again.
    Paul's face came to rest by my pillow and I curled up on my side, facing him.
    "Hi, baby," he grinned, and I had to restrain my hand, curl it into a fist and hold it against my thigh to stop myself from reaching out and caressing his face on the screen. I had enlarged it to cover it all, and he was now as close to actually there as I could make him—his face almost life-size in front of me, his voice, his breath in my ear.
    "Hi," I purred back. My fingers inched to the corner of the laptop.
    "Tell me how much you touched yourself last week."
    I hesitated, but only for a moment. The hint of a grin spreading over my face was clue enough, I suppose, but he asked me because he wanted to hear, because he liked the way my voice went brittle and nervous when I confessed. It had been a long week, aching for him between texts, guilty each time I sent a new one because it might distract him from his work. I knew how I was with deadlines.
    "A... lot, Sir" I started, rubbing my nose.
    "Every day?"  
    I nodded. My tongue snuck out to lick my lower