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Derek knew I wanted to go to Las Vegas. As soon as I answered his video call, he panned the camera outward. The Bellagio fountains erupted behind him, with water arcing under the cold platinum glare of floodlights. “Surprise, my little New York raindrop,” he said. His voice rumbled so low I could feel in my bones. “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Think of how you looked when you came the last time I touched you.”
I didn’t close my eyes. Instead, I let the image of him fade as the fountains crescendoed, their mechanical thrum syncing with the pulse in my dripping wet pussy. When I looked back, the screen showed not his face, but his body. Drenched in sweat, naked except for the sheen of the Vegas night. His hands slowly traced the curve of his ribs, as if he were sculpting himself out of muscle and clay.
