Chapter 117: Making Her Cum on Facetime

Peter leaned against the mall’s second-floor railing, one arm lazily draped as if he had all the time in the damn world. Below, people moved like ants—moms dragging screaming toddlers, dudes with shopping bags they clearly didn’t want to be carrying, and couples so clingy they might as well fuse at the hip.

His phone buzzed. Not the usual one—the

other

one.

The phone that didn’t exist.

The phone that got him in trouble.

ISABELLA RODRIGUEZ:

My husband’s in the garage. I’ve locked the door. I need your voice. Call me.

Peter’s brow arched. A smirk crept across his lips, the kind that could burn cities.He thumbed open the message, eyes gleaming.

Another ping.

ISABELLA RODRIGUEZ:

FaceTime. I want to see you. I want you to tell me what you’d do to me if you were here. No filters. Just you and that voice that ruins me.

He glanced around. Families. Security. Mall jazz piping through overpriced speakers.Cute.

He tapped out a reply like he wasn’t about to commit digital sin from the middle of a high-end food court.

PETER:

The one where you almost collapsed from one kiss? What a good little addict you are.

ISABELLA RODRIGUEZ:

Don’t tease me. I can still feel your mouth on my skin when I stand against that wall. It’s driving me crazy. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. About you. About your hands on me.

Peter pushed off the railing, his other hand sliding into his pocket as he wandered toward the glass elevator like he wasn’t getting hard from just her words.

God, she was reckless.

Married. Older. Obsessed.

His favorite kind of stupid.

PETER:

Tell me exactly what you’re thinking right now. Use your words, Mrs. Rodriguez.

ISABELLA RODRIGUEZ:

I want your mouth on my tits again. I want your hands between my thighs. I want you whispering in my ear while I fall apart in the same stall you ruined me in. God, Peter... I’m already wet. I can feel it through my panties.

Peter almost laughed. Not out loud—but the kind of wicked laugh that curls behind your teeth like smoke.

He leaned against the back wall of the elevator, the doors closing like a secret.

PETER:

Take them off. Right now. I want you to feel how soaked you are while you wait for me to answer your call.

ISABELLA RODRIGUEZ:

I did. They’re in my hand. I’m touching where your tongue should be.

His jaw clenched.He hit the button for the top floor just to buy time—to think, to breathe, to not lose his shit in public.

This woman was a fucking menace.

PETER:

Two fingers. Soft at first. Then deeper. You know how I like it. Do it slowly and think of my mouth around your nipple while I watch you fall apart through this screen.

There was a pause. The kind that hummed with quiet filth.

ISABELLA RODRIGUEZ:

Fuck... I’m trying to stay quiet but it’s hard. I wish you were here to pin me to this wall again. Your voice alone makes me squeeze around nothing.

The elevator dinged.

Peter stepped out, adjusted his jacket like it could hide the kind of hard-on that only danger delivers.

PETER:

Say what you need, Isabella. I’m listening.

And maybe, if you beg right... I’ll pick up.

ISABELLA RODRIGUEZ:

I need you. I need your voice. FaceTime me before I embarrass myself in here. I want to see that unreal fucking face while I cum.

The message hit him like a slap in the middle of Nordstrom.

Ding.

ISABELLA:

Tell me something dirty, Mr. Carter. Or better yet... let me show you something first.

Chime.Then again.Then again.

Three photos.

Peter’s jaw ticked. His back stiffened.He darted a quick glance around like someone might’ve seen the literal sin pinging into his palm.

A mom walked past, sipping her iced caramel latte and yelling at her kid to stop licking the glass.

Good. Distracted. Innocent.

He pivoted smoothly, pressing himself into the tight corner between the glass wall and a support beam like a sinner ducking behind a confessional.

Tap...

The first pic bloomed open—and his breath stalled.

Her fingers clutched the silk edge of her blouse like she’d been shaking, tugging it down inch by inch in some fevered ritual. It wasn’t just teasing—it was a damn invocation. An offering.The burgundy lace of her bra framed her like it knew it was seconds from being destroyed. The way it hugged her curves—tight, perfect,

sinful

—made his pulse throb in his throat.

Her skin was flushed, radiant, slick with that kind of heat that only comes when you’re burning from the inside out. She looked

touched

by the kind of fire only he could light.

Like every part of her still ached from the ghost of his mouth.

And her lips—

Fuck.

Glossy. Kiss-bruised. Parted like she’d just exhaled his name.

The shimmer of her gloss was smeared at the corner, a chaotic little detail that wrecked him more than anything else.

Because it looked like she’d been kissed hard.

Or bitten.

And suddenly, he hated the space between them like it was something alive.

Next...

The next photo hit him like a shot straight to the gut.

The blouse was gone—ditched like it had never mattered. Like she was done pretending this was innocent. One bra strap hung off her shoulder, the other barely clinging on, sliding down like even the fabric had given up on restraint. Her arm was bent, fingers hooked beneath the lace, tugging it low... low enough to make him stop breathing.

It wasn’t just seduction—it was surrender. A visual confession that she was breaking for him.

Her breasts—God, they looked unreal. Full, flushed, spilling out of that lace like they knew exactly what they were doing to him. Pressed forward like they were reaching for him, like they missed the heat of his mouth and the weight of his hands.

There was something raw in it—unfiltered. Like she’d taken the photo in the middle of craving, not posing.

And he could see it.

The ache.

The need.

And every cell in his body lit up with one thought:

Mine.

Final shot.

Just her mouth.Teeth digging into that bottom lip, the kind of bite that left marks. Her eyes stared into the lens like they were trying to drag him through it—glass with want, like the screen was the only thing keeping her sane.

Peter blinked once.

Exhaled once.

Then ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek and clenched the phone tighter like it might combust.

PETER:

You’re playing with fire, Isabella.

ISABELLA:

You lit it first. I’m just keeping it warm.

He scoffed under his breath. She was too good at this. Too fast. Too damn

aware

of her effect on him.

PETER:

That how you want to play it, mi tentación?

ISABELLA:

Only if you promise to burn me.

Jesus.

He didn’t even bother replying.He was already moving—cutting through the crowd like a knife in a silk dress. Smooth, quiet, focused.

A couple of girls looked at him as he passed—one even whispered, "Damn," under her breath.

He didn’t break stride. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t care.

He found the nearest restroom, pushed through the heavy door, and slipped into the last stall like it was second nature. Lock.Back against the wall.Head tilted.Thumb over the button.

Incoming FaceTime: Isabella Rodriguez.

He answered.

And there she was.

Her hair looked like she’d clawed through it—wild, loose, so unfairly touchable. Her skin glowed, flushed from heat or adrenaline or him. She was breathing hard, like she’d been running or fantasizing or both. The stall’s cheap lighting haloed her like some forbidden saint mid-fall.

She saw him—and her breath hitched.

He tilted the phone, low enough to catch the shadows cutting across his jaw, the curve of that cocky smile, and the quiet gleam in his eyes that said

he knew exactly what he was doing to her brain

.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, preciosa," he said, voice dropped to a dangerous hum. "But damn...

look at you.

"

She shivered. Literally.