Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You
Chapter 164: Dirty Talk

Chapter 164: Dirty Talk

Marcus

Her voice disappears and the line goes quiet, but I don’t hang up.

I stand frozen in the middle of my apartment, one hand gripping my phone, the other now clenched uselessly at my side. My pulse is thrumming in my ears, drowning out the rest of the world. I stare out the floor-to-ceiling window, but I don’t see the skyline. I only see her.

Rebecca. Unraveling.

For me.

The woman who once called me a walking red flag. Now, she’s on the other end of this line, undressing.

Because of me.

My lips twitch into a slow, almost disbelieving smile. I think I’m half in love with her already.

I pull in a slow breath. "Still there?" I ask, my voice low, careful.

A rustle.

Then a sigh.

"Yeah."

I sit on the edge of the bed, my tone softer now. "What are you wearing?"

A breathy laugh. "You already know the answer to that."

Jesus. My eyes close briefly. My brain tries to fill in the details—her hair down, the soft curve of her shoulder, the line of her neck. The earrings catch the light as she tilts her head.

"Tell me," I growl.

She doesn’t hesitate. "Just your broccoli. Nothing else. It’s cold in here, Marcus. I’m getting goosebumps."

"Good," I say, because it’s all I can manage.

The silence is broken only by the oceanic hush of her breathing, waves in and out. I hear the faint brush of her finger against the phone, her breath hitching, and suddenly I need to see her more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

"Picture," I prompt. "Now."

There’s a pause. Then, a muffled snap. Seconds later, my phone vibrates. For a moment, I can’t open it. I just stare at my trembling hand, like the phone holds a live wire. Then I do it anyway.

She fills the screen, wild hair around her flushed face, lips bitten red and breathless, gold and green of the earrings brilliant against pale skin. Her eyes are wide and so alive, and there’s a dare in them as if she’s asking what I’ll do next.

I’m on my feet, hard and aching, every inch of me desperate to reach through the glass.

I could fly to her right now. Less than two hours if I left the city by sundown.

"Rebecca," I say, voice thick. "I don’t think you are fat or unattractive. You are beautiful."

She hums on the other line. "I don’t look like those models you are used to sleeping with."

"I don’t want a damn model," I say, my voice low and steady. "I want you."

There’s another pause. She doesn’t speak, but I can feel her listening.

I take a breath, because if I’m ever going to be honest, it has to be now.

"I want the woman who makes sarcastic remarks under her breath when she thinks no one hears. The woman who rides me like she’s claiming a damn prize and then pretends it didn’t mean anything."

A soft, shocked laugh huffs through the phone. But she doesn’t interrupt.

"I want more from you, Rebecca."

She exhales, sharp and shallow. Like I’ve knocked the wind out of her.

There’s a long, chemical silence. I think maybe the connection’s dropped, until her breath reappears, softer now, the tiniest shiver behind it. "Is that right, Marcus? What do you want me to do?"

It’s a dare.

I drag my hand over my face and close my eyes, hand tight on the phone. "I want you to touch yourself. I want to know exactly how wet you get thinking about me inside you again."

I can hear the change in her exhale—relief and desire, cut with mischief. "That’s so presumptuous of you," she purrs, but there’s no venom. Only anticipation.

"It’s not presumptuous if we both want it," I say, voice slow as a blade.

"Hmm," she says, and I hear the phone shift, fabric moving, the sharp intake of breath as her palm finds bare skin. "Say it again."

I grip the back of my neck, exhaling hard. "I want you to imagine me there, fucking you so deep you can’t remember anything else. I want you to touch yourself for me, Rebecca. Now."

A little moan, half swallowed. "You’re so bossy."

"You like it."

"Maybe," she whispers, and I can picture the flush spreading down her throat across the curve of her chest. "I want you to touch yourself too."

I unzip my pants and take my cock in my hand. It is already slick with my precum. "I am touching myself," I tell her. "I’m hard, Rebecca. I’ve been hard ever since you left."

She gasps, sharp and delighted. "Good. I hope it aches."

"It does."

I hear the wet slide of her fingers, the high whimper as she finds the right spot. Her voice, broken and hot, cuts through me. She laughs, just once, breathless and real. "I wish you were here."

"I can be. Tell me to come."

I can hear her laugh again, even as it’s punctuated by little gasps. "Not yet. You haven’t earned it. I haven’t come yet—"

I squeeze myself harder, push my hips into my hand. "Do you want me to call you names?" I ask, not even aware I want this until it spills over. "You want me to tell you how fucking filthy you are, getting off to my voice?"

She whimpers, a whine at the top of her throat. "Yes." And, over it, a giggle. "Call me a slut, Marcus."

I almost come right then. "You’re my slut," I say, and it lands with the weight of command. "You’re my greedy, desperate little slut, and no one else gets to see how gorgeous you are when you’re like this. No one else gets to make you come."

She gasps, high and sharp, and I can tell she’s close.

"Are you going to?" she pants, the line breathless. "Make me come, Marcus?"

"I am. Are you rubbing your pussy for me, Rebecca?"

The silence is so thick I can feel her on the other end, poised and shivering. "I’m so wet. I’m so close. Nobody’s ever...nobody ever talked to me like this—"

The possessiveness in my own voice almost shocks me. "Only I’m allowed to make you beg."

She gasps, her pace picking up. "Please—"

"Come for me," I say, half-command, half-prayer.

The sound she makes is not a word or a moan, but a raw, shattering whimper that seems ripped straight from the marrow. I grip myself tighter and come in my own hand, the sensation white-hot and perfect, even from a thousand miles away.

On the line, she sighs, and there’s the flutter of sheets, her recovery mixing with incredulous laughter.

"God, you’re dangerous," she whispers.

I wait, for once, and let her catch her breath.

"You’re not getting a photo of my ass," she suddenly says.

"Fine. I’ll see it in person," I say.

She’s quiet a beat longer, then whispers, "Goodnight, Marcus."

"Goodnight, Rebecca."