Hotline Fling

14: I'm In

Juneau's POV

Shit! Damian wasn't kidding.

Tipped over a cliff, I hinged parallel to my living room floor and stared at my phone. The most perfect, largest, fully-excited penis I'd ever seen stared back in all its glory. Unless Damian's hands were tinier than mine, his picture of one hand gripping himself was enough that I dropped my phone, and Gus stepped on it. I cradled my phone in my palms, studying his picture like it was the next great work of art. I suppose, weirdly, he was.

Damian's dick was thick at the base, with a plump, red head and a slight flex in the shaft. Shadows etched the lines for the central column. My mouth watered at the glisten of precum on a soft, engorged head, and the idea that I licked it off for him surged the ache between my thighs. His muscular thighs, dotted with thin, sparse dark hair and a hint of sculpted lower abs were teasingly blurry in the background. They had nothing on his flexed, toned bicep. I salivated like a rabid animal at this headless man. Until I assaulted the GQ-magazine cop, who thankfully I hadn't seen since the free lunch gesture, I didn't think men that attractive existed in real life.

Or they didn't exist in my life. Unless he was a two-pump chump, I could have sex with Damian wearing a bag on his head and still be satisfied.

His short-sleeved, casual gray T-shirt was faded enough to suggest that it might be his favorite and sat snug around a broad chest and fit torso. An emblem and writing in navy blue stamped in the upper left corner near his pectoral muscle, but too blurry for me to make out the letters.

Damian's picture tore down my veil of anonymity. Of all the other possible cocks I'd raised like this, for some reason, I assumed that they fell a little flat. Fuck, my real-life limp-dick ex had nothing on Damian. I didn't even care if the picture wasn't him; the fantasy was enough. This would give me so many happy O-faces.

I hovered my thumb hovered over his dick. Oh gosh, I'd hung up on him five minutes ago. I clicked on a new text message to inform him I'd gotten the picture. How could I formulate any words that accurately described my reaction to it? Reduced into a desperate-for-dick state didn't seem like an appropriate compliment.

me: Don't mind me, just picking my jaw and vagina off the floor.

I typed in a contact name for Damian and released a breath when text bubbles appeared.

Sergeant Hotpants: It's okay. We're even now on hang ups.

me: We're June 1, Damian 2 by my count. But your picture obliterates the score, big boy. 😉

Sergeant Hotpants: Tell me how I can make it up to you then...

My mind went in twenty different directions, all of them dirty. Before I picked one, he texted me.

Sergeant Hotpants: Sorry, have another call I have to take.

A call came into my work cell with an ID that doused my excitement like an ice-cold shower. "Hey, Mr. Sanders," I grimaced into my phone at the name of my former boss-but-now-boss'-boss.

"Juneau, it's Kevin," his gravelly voice greeted me. "Just wanted to let you know that your weekly QR call review was today."

"It was?" My clock showed it was still early afternoon.

"Yes. I listened in on your previous call, with a Mr. Damian I presume."

Oh, shit. My face chilled, tingling my cheeks, and my mind flooded blank. A pulling-down sensation tugged my stomach. I would've preferred he'd heard the forty-five minutes of cringe-worthy Snape-capades with Matt. Damian was...I wasn't sure, but the word sacred came to mind. I had no idea how to explain it to myself, let alone my boss. Our conversation was what it was, and I'd sent Damian a picture from my cell to his.