Heartache and Hope (Heartache Duet #1) - Jay McLean Page 0,65

anything more than a slight touch to the wrong—or right—places. I switch off my bedroom light and turn on the lamp, then I get into bed, lower the thin strap of my tank top to reveal my bare shoulder. Eyes on the lens, I lick my lips, take a snapshot. I send it to him without a second thought.

Connor: Jesus Christ, Ava. That’s not home screen material, that’s…

Ava: You want another one?

Connor: Maybe move your top down a little more? Just an inch.

I comply, shifting until the neckline barely covers the top of my breasts. I take another photo, send it to him.

Minutes pass with no response.

Ava: Are you there?

Connor: Can I call you?

Ava: Yeah.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I quickly answer. “Give me a sec. I’ll just plug in my headphones.”

“Mmm.”

After grabbing my headphones from my nightstand, I connect them wirelessly and put one in my ear, needing the other free so I can hear the rest of the house. “What’s up?” I ask.

“Ava,” he says, his voice low. Rough. “I need you to send me another one.”

I swallow, knowing what he’s asking for. “You first.”

My phone vibrates almost instantly. He’s lying on his back, his hair a mess, eyes half-hooded. And he’s shirtless, his collarbone and muscled chest on full display.

“Your turn,” he insists, his voice barely audible.

I hesitate a beat, before lifting my shirt and angling the camera so my stomach and the underside of my breasts are in view. I quickly hit send, my body heating, pulse throbbing between my legs.

“Fuck, Ava,” he groans, his voice muffled by what I assume is his pillow. “You’re killing me.”

“Send me another one,” I whisper, gasping for air.

I hear him shift, and a moment later, his picture comes through. This one’s similar to the one I sent, an image of his perfect six-pack, each one defined by deep dips. There’s a scattering of dark hair between that V that drives women wild. It leads to a spot covered by the waistband of his boxers, an inch above his basketball shorts.

My mouth is dry. So dry. And I squeeze my legs together to try to increase the sensation there. I’m breathing heavy, so heavy I’m sure he can hear it. I force a swallow, try to regain some composure, but I can’t. My entire body is on fire, and I’m squirming, trying to find some form of reprieve from the powerful ache building inside me.

“Babe,” he says, but it comes out a moan. I can hear him shifting, moving, and I imagine him in his bed, eyes closed, chest rising and falling, his hand in his shorts… thinking of me. “Your turn.”

I shove my hand beneath my underwear, the tip of my finger pressing down on my nub. I let out a moan before picking up my phone and hitting the button. I check the picture, just enough for him to know what I’m doing without revealing too much.

I hit send.

“Fuck, Ava.”

I close my eyes, listen to the sounds of our breaths. Short. Sharp. Shallow. Amplified by the silence around us. I move my hand faster, faster, my back arching off the bed as I climb, climb, climb.

The phone vibrates again, and I open his next picture. A whimper escapes when I see it. His hand’s in his boxers, the outline of his knuckles clear, his hand circling his rock-hard—

Connor grunts, and I close my eyes again, my pleasure soaking my fingers. We don’t say another word. We’re nothing but heavy breaths and grunts and whimpers. I listen intently. Every sound, every movement. Every rapid, rhythmic shift. I know he’s doing the same as what I’m doing, and I imagine that we’re doing it to each other. The vision pushes me over the edge, a muted scream bursting from my throat. I bite down on my lip, my entire body convulsing as he moans with each of his breaths, louder and louder until one last, long grunt.

I listen to his breathing settle while mine does the same. An entire minute passes before I hear him chuckle. “Holy shit, Ava.”

I sigh, long and loud. “Teenage hormones are one hell of a drug.”

Chapter 37

Connor

“So… last night was…” I say, looking down at Ava’s legs. Her skirt seems higher today, or maybe it’s the way she’s sitting, or maybe she’s doing it just to mess with me.

“Intense?” she asks and lifts her skirt another inch. Yeah. She’s definitely messing with me. I grip the steering wheel tighter, and she giggles when