j ✰

you’re sitting on the floor of your guys’s bedroom in the complete darkness, knees up to your chest, sitting back against the bed. rafe won’t be home for at least another hour or so, giving you time to wipe your tears and ‘get on with it’ as your mother would say.

the constant thoughts of being too big and waiting for the day rafe laughs in your face and telling you this entire relationship was only a joke because he felt bad for you because you were the only one in your friend group who wasn’t dating anyone at the time; that he’s not actually attracted to someone who could be so big.

the thoughts have gotten deafening the last few days, suppressing your appetite, covering yourself in head to toe in rafe’s shirts and sweatshirts, your baggiest sweatpants, even swaddling yourself in every blanket in the house.

you’ve always been a bigger girl. always being the one who was a few sizes bigger than the rest of your friends in middle school, occasionally being able to find your size in every shopping mall store your friends wanted to go to because ‘the new spring crop tops just dropped and omggggg I wanna go!’

you tried here and there to diet, exercise, and even take medications, each lasting about a month or so before you got frustrated, seeing one or two numbers slip off the scale, if any at all.

you learned to love yourself throughout the years, but every so often, the thoughts come back even stronger than they did before.

like now.

you haven’t bothered to move from your spot since rafe left to go back to work after his lunch. you made him his favorite meal, spaghetti bolognese and garlic bread with a side salad. except, you had only made enough for one person. and rafe questioned it.

‘you’re not eating?’ he said with a confused look on his face. he swallowed the last bit of his pasta and looked over at you by the sink washing the dishes.

you weren’t facing him, so he couldn’t see the flush on your cheeks and the way you frowned. you shook your head and scrubbed the pot covered in sauce.

‘uh no. i — uh, had a big breakfast. too many cups of coffee too,’ you said softly. yeah okay.

‘i might have something after you leave. i still have a lot to do around the house.’ you turn a bit and look at him over your shoulder, giving him a warm smile before turning your focus back to the dishes.

you hear him give a hum behind you, as well as his footsteps coming closer. he reaches around you and puts his dishes in the sink before giving you a few kisses to the top of your head.

‘alright, baby,’ he says with a mouthful of food. ‘i should be home around sixish. make whatever you want tonight. ‘s your choice.’ he turns you around gently, you dropping the rag and the plate in the soapy water. he gives a close lipped smile and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, then pats your cheek gently.

you return the smile and nod just once. he turns to leave with an ‘i love you,’ and walks out the garage door.

he didn’t seem to think anything of it and you let out a sigh of relief at the memory. the amount of stress and frustration it would take to speak your thoughts and feelings about your thoughts and feelings of your own body would be a nightmare. after you ended up finishing the dishes, you had made your way upstairs and plopped onto the ground in your shared bedroom, the hole in your stomach growing in guilt and shame as hours stretched on.

you look at the bedside table clock and see the blaring red numbers.

5:45 PM

you get up from the ground and huff, wiping your eyes which are probably puffy and fucked, eyes probably bloodshot and double fucked, but what can you do in all of fifteen minutes before your lover comes home? it’s fine, it’s whatever. get on with it.

you quickly turn on the lamp on the bedside table and make your way downstairs.

you sniff, nose stuffed with snot from crying all afternoon. your mind runs with simple meal recipes that you can make quickly and ones that you’re comfortable with tonight.

after opening the fridge, you decide on a chicken and rice dish with some left over salad from the lunch you made for rafe, as well as sautéed veggies (you had a history with the kitchen, rafe doesn’t complain; it’s a double sided coin.)

as you move your way through the kitchen, pans searing and rice cooker steaming, you hear the door leading to the garage open and shut softly. rafe puts his things in the mudroom and makes his way over to you immediately.

“smells good.” he says giving you a hug from behind. you smile and hum.

you ask about his day, he responds. ‘nothing new, still working on that deal with that one company. they’re still trying to negotiate pricing, but we’re at our wits end. y’remember me telling you, right? well…’ he trails on and you listen contently.

“how about you? what’d you do today?” he asks leaning against the counter. you hesitate before answering, trying to come up with anything besides saying, ‘oh well, yknow, cried like a baby because I’m basically five hundred sizes bigger than the average woman my age. highlight of my day honestly!’

you shake your head at your rambling thoughts. “oh you know, just… did the dishes and had an easy day. just hung out in the room.” you shrug. you plate both of your food and make your way to the table, setting the plates down and sitting.

rafe is still in the same spot at the counter and he waits a few seconds before hanging his head a bit and moving to sit at the table. he doesn’t say anything though.

there’s a sense of tension in the air from your hesitant answers to him from the past couple of days — nearing a week — but especially today. you try your best to make some kind of conversation because you’re two seconds away from literally getting up and locking yourself in the bathroom. you also pray he doesn’t notice the difference in amounts of food on your plates. all it takes is one movement of his eyes over yours, or at the plates, and you’ll lose it.

so you pick up your fork and bring a chunk of chicken to your mouth. your eyes don’t look over at him once. that’s when it all comes to a head.

“did you eat before i got home?” he breaks the silence. he puts his fork in his mouth slowly, giving you his undivided attention.

you struggle to swallow the measly piece of meat in your mouth. you give a half-hearted chuckle, still not meeting his eyes. “uh, yeah. just had half a sandwich. wanted to sit with you and have a few bites though.”

your appetite was now completely gone, the subject of the conversation waning any sort of hunger that you had today. “i’m just gonna run to the bathroom.” you say.

you walk out of the kitchen casually as if you’re not on the brink of tears once again, and as soon as you’re out of sight, you make your way quickly up the stairs to your bathroom and lock the door, sliding down and sitting on the floor.

you bring your knees up to your chest and let the tears fall. nothing even happened, he just tried to make conversation and you fucking lost it. get on with it. but you knew, you knew that if anything like that was mentioned, you’d break down and you tried to not.

even earlier today he said something, so he obviously sees it. maybe he’s happy you’re not eating in front of him and just wants confirmation that you are. like earlier today when he was home, and just now. maybe he doesn’t want to see you get any bigger. out of sight, out of mind.

you stand up suddenly and turn on the lights. you look a wreck. face flushed, tear streaks, eyes puffy. you turn to your side and lift up your sweatshirt. your heart breaks and fresh tears roll down. you rub a hand up and down your stomach, turning at different angles, pinching at different areas, covering the faded and pale stretch marks. wishing you could pinch so hard, it all comes off so you can throw it in the trash or flush it down the toilet and never to be seen again.

you turn to face yourself in the mirror and you move your arms to hug yourself, feeling small and wanting to hide. the tears haven’t stopped, and you don’t know if they will. you can’t go back downstairs looking like a mess. get on with it. but you can’t. so you don’t move.

you flinch at the sound of knocking at the door.

“hey, you okay?” rafe’s voice comes through the door. you squeeze your eyes shut and wipe the free falling tears.

“uh — y-yeah! give me a sec. my stomach hurts.” your voice trembles. you begin to panic, you start breathing heavier and your body starts to shake.

“here, unlock the door. let me help.” he replies, jigging the door knob. you shake your head furiously.

“no, no. i swear, i’m fine. just — just give me a sec.” you say nervously, voice breaking on the last word. but you don’t go to move. you just stare at yourself, your biggest nightmare coming true. he can’t see you like this. he’s gonna think you’re a fucking wacko, crying over something so obvious, anyone could see it.

maybe he’s smiling on the other side of the door. maybe he’s knows exactly what’s going on and he’s happy that you’re finally seeing what he’s seen all along.

you don’t notice the door unlocking, him finding the spare key in the bedside table. you flinch and turn towards him, your arms immediately dropping down to your sides. you look at his face. it’s full of concern.

“hey, — what. woah, whats wrong? are you okay? why are you crying, baby?” he makes his way towards you with his hands reaching out slowly like you’re a stray animal, not wanting to scare you.

you shake your head and step away from him. he can’t touch you because he’ll feel. you don’t want him to feel it all because that will break you the most if he gets repulsed by touching you.

“woah, woah. hey. hey. look at me, what’s wrong?” his hands grasp your face, hands on both of your cheeks and making you look at him. and you break. it all comes out.

you drop to your knees with a strangled cry and he follows you. your head drops to rest against his throat, your arms wrapping around your knees, trying to make you take up less space than you ever have in your life. and you just cry. sobs leave your throat, tears streaming, snot dripping. if he didn’t think you were ugly then, this is definitely the icing on the cake.

he wraps his arms around you and his chin rests on top of your head. his heart is racing, he doesn’t know what’s going on and he doesn’t know how to voice his concerns. so he just sits and lets you cry.

“i hate myself,” you say through gasping sobs. it hurts to say out loud, but you know he’s not going to leave your side after seeing you fall apart. there’s no way. “i — i fucking hate myself.”

he moves a bit so that your head is resting against one of his biceps, almost like he’s holding a baby; you sitting sort of horizontal, knees still pulled up to your chest, but now you’re looking up at him a bit.

his eyes are roaming all over your face, eyebrows furrowed, his chest moving up and down faster than normal. he doesn’t speak and lets you continue.

“i’ve never told you because i didn’t w-want you to know. i didn’t want to be looked at like a fragile fucking thing where you have to walk on eggshells around me or overcompensate and throw around extra fucking compliments when they aren’t true in the first place to ignore the original problem.” you swallow.

“i hate the way i look, i hate h-how my clothes fit on my body, i hate the way that everybody else can see how i look and know that they’re thinking the exact same thoughts that i am about myself and i-” you cut yourself off to take a breath. the tears haven’t stopped. you’re sure that after tonight, you won’t have any left to cry.

“i just hate. hate that these thoughts won’t go away. they haven’t for years. it’s all i’ve ever known. i beat myself up everyday because i — i know that at some point. you’re going to call it quits and it’ll be because of me. because i — i’m not her. i’m not the one girl who’s good enough to fucking stand next to you. everyone already looks at us like — like you’re doing me a favor because of how i look and it’s just a matter of time that it comes true.”

rafe swallows. you focus through your blurry eyes and see he has a pair of his own, tears threatening to fall. but he still doesn’t say a word.

“i hate my body,” you whisper brokenly. “i have since middle school. i’ve always been the bigger girl out of my friends and i still am. it gets to a point where,” you pause.

“where any time they want to go shopping or — or to the pool or the beach or just going out for a girls night, i cancel last minute or i sit under the umbrellas because i don’t want people to see me. i want to disappear and pretend that i don’t exist.”

you’re so tired. you stop talking because if you don’t, you’ll keep repeating yourself over and over until you’re a broken record. you’re surprised he’s stayed this long, hasn’t laughed or rolled his eyes, hasn’t dropped you completely and walked out of the house.

it’s silent for a few minutes. tears are still streaming down your face, but you’ve calmed for the most part. you’re staring off into space until you feel him move beneath you. he takes his hands and places them on your cheeks again and makes you look at him once more.

“oh, how beautiful you are.” he whispers so softly, you might’ve imagined it. his thumbs come to rub under your eyes, wiping away the never ending tears.

your heart leaps at his words. they’re kind. it’s a happy feeling.

“you have your own reasons for not telling me, and that’s okay. i’m not upset. this changes absolutely nothing. nothing about you to me. i’m upset because you’re hurting.” he continues. his own tears have fallen.

your lip quivers and you swallow the sob that threatens its way out of your mouth.

“i know… that. nothing i can say will fix it completely. that they’re always going to be in the back of your mind,” he sniffs. he tightens his hands on your cheeks, almost like a silent i’ve got you.

“but there won’t be a day that passes where i won’t continue to worship the damn ground you walk on. you. are the most ethereal thing i have ever seen in my entire life.” he says.

“you — you are so beautiful. i love every square centimeter of your body. i cannot fathom a time where i don’t fall in love with you more every damn morning that i wake up. there is not a single thing wrong with you in my eyes.”

“every time i look at you, my head goes rampant. every single muscle in my body wants to wrap around you. like it wants to intertwine our bodies into one.”

he removes his hands from you and wraps them back around you, resting the side of his head on top of yours. he begins to sway the both of you gently.

“you captivate me in ways no other soul ever will. you are it for me. i am so in love with you, my entire existence depends on yours. and to me, you are truly the most bewitching woman i have known to love. all of you. every goddamn piece of you.” he finishes. he moves his head and kisses every inch of your face that he can reach at this angle.

you give a small giggle, eyes watery from his words. it made your heart flutter and your stomach erupt in butterflies. it’s the kind of words you read in fairytales or see in movies. and it was said to you.

the dinner gone cold, the kitchen still a mess, you both move to the bed with rafe still professing his love for your beauty. you lay on the bed as he undresses you slowly, kissing every part of your body you try to hide from him or flinch away from when he runs his hands over it.

and he goes into detail about what he loves so much about that part of your body. he runs his fingers over each stretch mark, caressing and filling them with love.

that’s how the night ends — rafe worshipping your battered body, battered with hate and disgust from your brain. gentle touches, soft kisses, and hugs full of warmth.

Two weeks ago, he’d been wandering home—drunk, buzzed, stumbling back toward the frat house with a few of his brothers before he came home for winter break. He didn’t know if it was the liquor or the weed talking. Maybe it was the fact he scraped by that econ final with a B by some act of God.

But damn... Something in him had switched on.

A billboard. Glossed lips. Bold. Barely lit from a busted streetlamp below, glowing along University Avenue. In thick red lipstick letters were the words Lonely? We Can Fix That, followed by a string of numbers Rafe could only assume led somewhere sinful—somewhere he wanted to be.

He couldn’t stop staring at it, blinking up in a drunken horned‑up daze, buzzed and unsteady, like a man possessed.

“Why don’t you take a fucking picture, buddy?” Kelce had teased, slapping a hand against his back, the hit jolting Rafe just enough to snap him back to reality.

So he did just that. And the rest was history.

Twelve beautiful, costly nights. That history revolving around you.

He wasn’t even planning to call the second night. But, here he was, two weeks later, still obsessed.

And still, he fights it. Just lies there in the dark, skin flushed, cock heavy against his thigh, thinking about it like he’ll somehow be able to resist. Romanticizing you nonetheless. Romanticizing your voice. The idea of you waiting for him on the other side of the line.

He knows it’s a fantasy. Dream Girl 81444.

And to him, you are exactly that—untouchable, a goddess, the kind of voice that curls low in his stomach and makes it harder to breathe. But he loves it. All of it. Loves the way it makes him feel, like something’s happening even when nothing is.

Maybe it’s dumb—blowing cash and his load over a voice he doesn’t know, a girl he’s never seen. A sex hotline in the big year 2026; but he wants to.

That’s what fucks him up.

His forearm drapes over his eyes, breathing deeply, letting the memory wash over him the way it has every night since.

The calls were warm, intimate even through the phone, he swears he could picture your smile.

Those beautiful, filthy words you gave him—tender when he needed soft, biting when he craved it, syrupy and cruel in a way that made him ache like you could read him without asking. Like you knew what he wanted before he even realized it himself.

He never had to guide the call. Didn’t need to lead you anywhere. It just flowed.

You had this way about you. It wasn’t just some phone sex line he dialed late at night—this was different. And with that realization, he knew he’d lost the plot. Lost the purpose of it all. Whatever the hell the Angel Hotline was selling, he was buying without hesitation—because he was hooked. On you. On Dream Girl 81444.

Rafe swallows, his throat tightening as his hand finally slides lower, fingers curling into the edge of the towel at his waist. He pictures you the way he always does—nothing concrete, no defined image, just flickers and impressions. The shape of your smile, the way your mouth might hover near his ear before you spoke; how close you’d lean—close enough he’d feel your breath before he heard your voice.

He imagines your hands. Not how they look, just what they do. How they’d rest against his chest like they belonged there. How your nails would drag slow over his skin, raising goosebumps, leaving red trails he’d still see the next morning. How your mouth would press against his jaw, whispering what you wanted from him. What you planned to do to him. What you’d let him do to you.

“Fuck,” he mutters into the empty room, barely more than a breath.

Your name follows, rough and low, rasped into the dark—and shit, it sounds good on his lips. Better than it should. He’d assumed it was fake. Some name you made up for the job. Something disposable. But what if it wasn’t?

He exhales slow through his nose, eyes still shut, chest rising and falling in time with the thoughts spiraling through him.

Where are you right now? Another state? Another time zone? Or maybe you’re closer than he thinks—maybe you’re back at school already, passing the same shops, drinking at the same bars, brushing shoulders with people he knows.

Would you ever meet him? A hotel room? A city he’s never been? Somewhere anonymous and quiet, just the two of you in a room with a bed and a lock?

“Jesus,” he huffs, dragging a hand down his face, frustration burning hot behind his ribs. His cock is hard now, straining against the towel, the fabric damp with precum where it sticks to his inner thigh.

Rafe Cameron doesn’t just want to call. He wants you.

His thumb swipes across the keypad before he can stop it. Barely three rings before someone picks up.

“Good evening,” a voice purrs. “This is the Angel Hotline. Dream Girl 1800. Are you lonely?”

It’s not you. The second he hears it, Rafe’s stomach sinks. Heat flashes down his spine, the back of his neck hot as his breath catches high in his throat.

“Handsome?” She tries again, her voice syrupy and smooth, soft like velvet.

“Oh—uh—I’m sorry. Yeah, I—” He clears his throat, sitting up slightly. “Is… Is she not in tonight?”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then a low giggle. “She?”

He swallows hard and tries again, a little quieter this time. “Dream Girl 81444.” The number wavers off his tongue like a secret, embarrassment burning across his cheeks before the girl even answers.

She laughs again—this time slower, like she knows something he doesn’t. Like she knows exactly who he is.

“You’re him, aren’t you?”

The words hit him like a gut punch. “I’m—what?”

“Oh, nothing,” she says lightly, all tease. “You just sound hot and needy. Very needy.”

“I don’t know about that—” He starts, chuckling nervously, but she cuts him off.

“Been wondering who my girl’s been thinkin’ about all week.”

Rafe falls silent. Just like that, he forgets how to talk. His hand lifts instinctively to cover the grin tugging at his mouth as he sinks deeper into the pillows, phone pressed tight to his ear. “She… She talked about me?”

“Maybe,” the girl replies, and he can hear the smile in her voice. “You’ve got her actin’ like she’s the one dialing in—”

“Oh, fuck off,” he blurts out a laugh, flushing a deeper shade of red. His voice is breathless with disbelief, giddy in a way he can’t hide. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling harder, like a boy who just found out his crush doodled their initials in a spiral notebook. “Is she in tonight?”

“She’s not,” the girl says gently. “But for you, lover boy? Maybe. Gimme three minutes.”

“Really?” His voice lifts, soft and hopeful.

“Three minutes,” she repeats, voice warm and teasing knowing he’ll wait.

“Hey, stranger.”

His breath catches like it’s the first time. “Fuck,” he exhales, the word pulled straight from his chest. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that voice.”

You smile softly, curling deeper into your pillow. “A day…”

“Feels longer than that,” he mumbles, voice low and warm against your ear.

“I was wondering if you’d call back.”

“No, you weren’t,” he says, the laugh that follows thin and a little self-conscious, like he already knows how pathetic he sounds. “You knew I would… Bet you and your friend sit there and make fun of me.”

“We don’t,” you coo, gentle and teasing. “We’d never—”

“Mhmm…” he hums, not believing you for a second, not really caring either. He’s soaking it all up.

“It’s sweet,” you whisper. “A little pathetic. But sweet.”

“Ugh, don’t call me that,” he groans under his breath, and you hear the sheets shift on the other end.

“Why not?” You giggle, dragging the syllables just to bully him.

He breathes out slowly this time, a different kind of exhale, heavier and needier. His voice tips, just slightly, as it spills into the quiet between you. “Because I like it too much.”

“You know it’s New Year’s Eve, right?” You whisper, barely audible.

“I know,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“You should be,” you murmur, already smiling.

“I was tryin’,” he groans. “I stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes hearing your voice in my head instead.”

You hum again, soft and knowing. “So you missed me—”

“And I’ve never even had you,” he finishes your sentence, quiet and rough. “You know how crazy that is? You got me whipped.”

Your chest tightens at that. It’s not just a line. He means it.

“Can’t believe it took me this long to call,” he murmurs, sincerity laced in his tone. “It was killin’ me. Truly.”

“Good thing I answered… I missed you,” you whisper, giving him what you know he’s waiting for. “If that’s what you wanted to hear.”

“Needed—that’s exactly what I needed to hear,” he sighs. “You sound so fuckin’ good.”

“Yeah?” You giggle, biting your lip.

“You got no idea what you do to me.”

“We’ve only been talking for a few days—”

“Twelve,” he corrects you, like he’s been counting the minutes. “Thirteen today—doesn’t fuckin’ matter. Got me fucked up regardless.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be out at some bar tonight?” You ask lightly, trying to keep your tone neutral. “I assume you’re home from college still.”

He grunts, like he doesn’t want to talk about it but knows he will anyway. “Yeah. I’m still home.”

“I’m sure there’s a girl somewhere tonight who’s stressed out over you not answering her.”

He exhales sharply. “It’s nothing,” he says, and suddenly his voice shifts—drops a little lower. “I’m stressed about you.”

Your stomach flips. You know it shouldn’t affect you. You breathe slowly, pretending you’re not jealous over the thought of that, reminding yourself it’s just work.

“There’s a girl,” he starts up again. “She texts me whenever we’re home. But I—I didn’t want that.”

You weren’t supposed to care. This was just a job. A nameless man on the other side of the phone with a seemingly limitless credit card and some time to burn. A little fantasy that never started for you and disappeared for him the second the call ended.

And yet—there it is. That sharp little pinch in your chest that doesn’t belong there. Jealousy.

“Oh?” You say softly, and you hate how small it sounds.

He picks up on it instantly though. “You okay, pretty?” He asks gently.

“Of course,” you breathe, slipping into that breathless, practiced voice that you’ve perfected as a hotline angel. The one that keeps men on the line for another hour. The one that usually works.

“Was it something I said?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s nothing,” you mumble, not sure why it feels so hard to say.

“No it ain’t… Tell me. Please,” he says, like he’s reading straight through you—like he cares.

“I don’t know. I didn’t expect to feel anything.”

“Feel?” He echoes, his words cracking slightly. “Feel what?”

You hesitate. That line between fantasy and something else has never felt thinner. “It’s stupid, Rafe—”

“It’s not stupid,” he stops you. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know,” you laugh nervously, adjusting anxiously on your mattress. “Jealous, I guess,” the words mumble through your lips, quiet and hesitant.

“Now I know you’re fuckin’ with me,” he scoffs, nervousness merrying with his words as well.

“Am I?”

“Are you?” He counters, and you can hear he’s smiling. His happiness soothes something inside you—the two of you’re still dancing around the elephant in the room. Is this for real? Or is this pretend? Is your jealousy some fantasy you’re spinning for him for the night? Or do you mean every word.

“Guess you’ll never know,” you whisper.

“Guess so… Dream Girl 81444.”

He draws out each number, slow and syrupy, and you swear the sound of it vibrates straight through you. “I like it better when you use my name,” you breathe.

“You do?” His voice drops even lower. “Well, is that your name? Or are you just fuckin’ with me again?”

“I guess you’ll never know—”

“C’mon,” he sighs, already sounding like he’s begging.

“I’m a professional, Rafe Cameron,” you whisper.

“Love how you say my name…” He breathes like he just got his fix. Like he’s picturing you whimpering his name as you ride him slowly, falling apart around him as he swallows the sound of his name on your tongue.

“Well, I wish we could’ve done that together.” You interrupt his fantasy with another.

“Done what?” He asks dreamily, clearly already lost in it—half-drunk on lust and the images you’ve already conjured up.

“Showered,” you say, letting the word linger between you. “Me and you. Hot water. My hands on your body, slick and soapy. Pressed up against your chest.”

He groans immediately, swallowing thickly, his breath catching like his body is already ahead of his brain. A visceral reaction that has him moaning “Fuuuck,” into the microphone, “don’t say shit like that.”

“Why not?” You ask, all faux innocence. “What would you do if I were there, Rafe Cameron?”

Somewhere on the other end, his big hand flexes against the sheets. He’s staring at the ceiling now, jaw tight, like he’s physically restraining himself from reaching for his cock.

“You’re killin’ me. You know that, right?”

Your body pulses in response to his voice, a slow, aching throb that has nothing to do with performance and everything to do with want. “Good,” you murmur. “You think I’m not obsessing too?”

He turns his head into the pillow for a moment, the tension in his body is too much to take. “I think you’re real fuckin’ good at your job,” he admits, voice thick. “And I’m a sap with deep pockets and a soft spot for you—”

“Yeah?” You laugh.

“All fuckin’ day,” he confirms, his voice low and steady. “After that call last night? Shit. I couldn’t focus. I was just layin’ there, picturing your voice in my ear. Not through the phone. With you in my bed, on my lap, whisperin’ whatever you wanted, and me just givin’ it to you.”

“It?” You echo softly, coaxing him for more.

“Can’t tell you that yet, angel.”

“Why not?” You ask playfully.

“‘Cause if I do, I’ll cum,” he says, blunt and breathless. “I’m already a fuckin’ mess, I’m so hard it hurts, and this pretty thing on the other side of the phone hasn’t told me to yet—and that’s kind of all I want.”

“So pathetic for me,” you whisper.

He moans low and deep, already frustrated with how easy he is for you. “Baby, you gotta stop—”

“Stop holding back,” you interrupt, your voice smooth but firm, leaving no room for resistance. “I mean it. Stop telling me what you can’t do. You called me. You wanted this. This is your fantasy, Rafe. Do you want me to stop? Say stop, baby. Go on. Tell me you’ve had enough.”

He groans under his breath, the sound guttural and desperate. Some jumbled praise slips out, too quiet to fully catch. “Sorry. I just—you’re too good at this shit.”

“I’ve heard it all from other men,” you continue, “and it meant nothing to me. I want to hear it from you. I need it. What would you do to me?”

He exhales shakily, the sound dragging out of him.

“And what would I do to you?” You add, a little softer. “Don’t you want to talk about that with me?”

“Holy shit,” he groans, like your words wrapped around his cock and stroked. “Yeah? That’s what I want?”

“Then do it,” you say without a trace of hesitation.

“I don’t wanna hang up,” he murmurs. “I don’t want this conversation to end when I cum. That's the only reason I’m holding back.”

You shift your hips, moving your body closer to the laptop, pushing your fingers in your pussy, working yourself so the mic catches the rhythm of your fingers and the breathy sounds slipping past your lips. You don’t even know how much of it he hears— “That’s you?” He asks, voice breathless and desperate. “You promise?”

“I bet I’m wetter than that girl texting you for dick,” you purr, smooth and filthy. “I bet I’d feel so good around yours.”

“Fuck me,” he mutters, the word shaky and low. “You wanna know what I’d do if you were here?”

“Yes,” you breathe, already aching for an answer.

“I’d ruin you,” he says like a promise. “I’d lay you out right here on my bed, start slow—kiss your chest, your stomach, the insides of your thighs. Every spot except where you need me most. Just to hear you beg.”

A soft whimper escapes you, your back arching off the mattress as his voice fills the space around you, your fingers continuing to toy with your slit.

“I’d get on my knees,” he continues. “Pull you to the edge of the bed and spread you open. Hold you there, hands tight on your hips, and eat you until you were crying, tongue-fuck you until the only thing left in your head was my name—until you were beggin’ for my cock, if you could even still talk.”

“Holy shit,” you whisper, breath catching as your fingers circle your clit.

“That what you needed, pretty girl?” He murmurs.

“Why’d you stop?” You ask, your voice pitched with a teasing edge and he laughs, deep and lusty.

The laptop in front of you stays propped open, clocking your session as the time ticks steadily upward. The call center interface glows quietly on the screen. Somewhere in the blankets, your phone glows screen-down, buzzing quietly like it’s holding a secret—until it’s not.

He chuckles low, the sound dark with promise. You can hear him shifting, like he’s about to keep going when—Buzz.

His phone vibrates once in his hand. The screen flashes with two new messages from an unknown; a text and an image.

💬 Unknown Number: Keep this a secret 🪽

His heart thunders in his chest as he taps the message open, breath leaving his chest in a rush.

There you are, lying on your bed, your hair damp just like his, lips parted like you’re about to whisper his name. One arm is looped across your chest, barely covering your breasts, the soft curves pressed together with enough tension to tease.

Your lower body is twisted in such a way that it gives him a glimpse of the curve of your thigh; the suggestion of your ass. The lighting is low and warm, soft and intimate.

It’s not his usual holiday hook-up. No… This is special.

This has to be you.

You’ve broken the rules. For him—for this moment.

He didn’t need to know everything about your job to know you were supposed to do this with a client. These calls weren’t supposed to go this far or get this personal. None of it was supposed to feel real.

And yet—there you are. In his cellphone with your personal number, your body on display for him and only him.

“Still with me?” You ask softly through the speaker, your voice feather-light with amusement.

He drags his eyes away from the phone screen like it hurts to look away, repeating your words in his head. Keep this a secret, Rafe.

“Baby,” he murmurs, dazed. “I—fuck. I’m sorry. I just got a text.”

“Was it important?” You ask, your voice lilting with mischief.

His hand drops to his cock without hesitation, gripping hard as his head tips back. “Holy fuck,” he breathes. “Yeah. So fucking important. You’ve got no idea.”

You smile to yourself, hearing his excitement and lust in each word, knowing how much it’s killing him not to speak all of the praise he’s holding back.

“I wish I could see you,” he groans, pressing the phone to his cheek. “Wish I could watch what you’re doing to yourself right now—” Buzz. Another vibration hums against his palm. He lets out a disbelieving laugh, broken and breathless. “You gotta be kidding me,” he mutters.

“Another text?” You ask sweetly.

He opens the new message. This time it’s not just a photo—it’s a live image. You’re moving. His eyes track every detail, every second of it.

Your body arches on the bed, caught in motion. Your lips part on a gasp, your hair resting on the silk pillow case. His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip involuntarily as his hand palms his cock, stroking up and down, eyes locked to the screen like he’s under a spell.

💬 Unknown Number: Keep this a secret too 💕

“Fuckin’ how, baby? Jesus—” He answers your text with breathless words.

“What?” You ask playfully.

“Damn, you’re really doin’ this?” His voice dips, full of awe. “For me? Goddamn… You’re so perfect.” He spits in his palm, slicking the length of his cock. “Fucking hell,” he mutters.

“You hear that?” You whisper.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I heard it, baby.”

“That’s my fingers,” you say softly. “You’ve got me so wet I can barely keep quiet.”

“Don’t keep quiet,” he says, almost pleading. “Be as loud as you want with me.”

“You like that I’m touching myself because of you, Rafe?” You ask, listening as your words unravel him.

“Fuckin’ love it,” he growls, his voice washed with pleasure. “Wish I could say what I wanna say. Wish I could praise you the way you deserve.”

His eyes drop to the screen as his knuckles whiten from how tightly he grips the phone. His other hand is jerking himself with desperate, steady strokes, head thrown deep in the pillows like he’s trying not to lose it without you.

“This shit goes both ways, right?” He asks, and before you can answer, your own phone vibrates in your hand.

💬 Rafe Cameron: Look at what you do to me.

Your breath catches as you tap open the photo he’s sent. The camera is pointed down toward his body, his gold chain resting against his tan chest gleaming faintly under the lamp, trailing to those sharp v-lines leading toward the base of his cock. His big hand wraps around it, thick fingers curled tight, the tip of his dick out of frame. The ultimate tease.

He’s beautiful—flushed skin, taut abs, full lips bitten red. His jaw clenches, and you can see the faint indents from his teeth on his bottom lip from where he’d been biting it.

“Still with me?” He murmurs, echoing your own words from earlier with that same sinful edge.

“Lower,” you whisper, already breathless.

“Lower, huh?” He chuckles, and there’s the sound of movement through the speaker, then he’s back.

A second image appears on your screen, and your mouth falls open.

His cock is flushed and heavy in his grip, precum and spit glistening as it drips down the shaft, catching on his knuckles and coating his gold ring. The veins in his forearm are raised, abs tightening with every breath, the tension radiating off him.

“Jesus, Rafe,” you whimper. “I want you in my mouth.”

“You do—”

“Need you in my pussy,” you whisper, and he groans out loud.

“Shit… I’m not gonna last,” he grits, and you can hear the sounds of his hand moving faster now, wet and frantic. “You’re insane.”

“No,” you say quietly, lowering the phone just enough for the mic to catch the lewd, slick sounds of your fingers again. You let it go for a few more seconds, then lift it back to your lips. “I’m yours—”

“Say that again,” he pleads, already losing control.

“You heard me,” you sigh as you swear you can hear the phone tremble in his grip.

“Fuck,” he chokes out. “Just say it—”

“You’re such a good boy for me,” you whisper, and the words shatter him.

He curses under his breath, voice shattering. “Say. It,” he grunts.

“I’m yours—” You start, but his groan cuts you off.

“Shhhit,” he moans as his rhythm falters, breath catching, cumming hard on the other side of the line.

You’re trembling on your end, fingers moving frantically. You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you shift the phone closer to your mouth, voice soft, breath shaky. “Rafe…”

“Mhmm?” He asks, still coming down, lazy and smug, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice.

“You… took something, didn’t you?”

He hums low, taunting you. “Took what?”

“Just… what you looked like.”

He chuckles cruelly, slow and mean. “Oh, shit, baby. You mean the mess I made?”

“Please,” you whimper, tiptoeing at the edge of your release.

“What do you want, baby? Fuck. You know how good you sound beggin’ like this?”

“For me—”

“You’re askin’ for proof?” He mumbles, voice dropping an octave.

“I’m not asking for anything.”

“Liar—” Buzz. The image flashes across your phone—obscene and live—catching the moment he climaxed, his cock throbbing and releasing, glistening with his big fist wrapped tight around the base, thick cum striping his knuckles, dripping down his wrist.

“Fuck, Rafe… I’m gonna cum,” you whimper softly, lips parting, chest rising with a ragged inhale.

“Cum for me,” he breathes and your body complies, cumming so hard it makes your vision go white—his name is the only thing on your lips.

Your heart pounds, your thoughts scattered; a flutter blooming in your chest. A part of you wonders if you played it cool enough not to get flagged by the system. But the rest of you—the part still soaking in the warmth of his voice and your pleasure—couldn’t care less.

He might just be worth it— “I should probably go to bed,” he says suddenly, his voice soft but oddly flat—like the words surprise even him as they leave his mouth.

“Oh,” you breathe. The high you were riding drains instantly, slipping out from under you. “Okay.”

“I mean—fuck,” he exhales, fumbling for an excuse. Like maybe that earlier text—the one from some hometown girl—suddenly matters. “I just—yeah. I should.”

“Right,” you say, quieter now, the ache blooming beneath your ribs. “Of course.”

He tries to recover. “Tomorrow?” he asks, like it’s a promise. Like he didn’t just take a step back without warning. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Okay—”

But he’s already gone. The call ends mid-breath. No goodbye. No teasing send-off. Just a dull, digital silence where his voice used to be as you stare at the screen.

Your heart’s still racing—but now for all the wrong reasons. That flutter in your stomach? It knots. That swell in your chest? It aches. Not because he left. They all leave. That’s the job. You just didn’t expect it to feel like this.

You didn’t expect it to feel personal.

Your gaze shifts to the laptop. The billing total glows back at you like a slap—proof it worked. Proof you worked.

So why does it feel like a loss?

You slam the screen shut a little too hard, throwing your phone down on the comforter beside you. This is supposed to be the part you’re good at. Make them fall. Cash out. Walk away before it costs you anything.

But the silence tonight feels different. It stretches. It lingers. It hurts in a new way—Buzz.

You draw in a breath, eyes falling shut as you await your fate. The Angel Hotline calling you out for your conversation with Rafe or your friend calling you up to see how it all went down only to admit your unfortunate reality.

Whatever.

You snag your phone off the mattress, checking the notification.

💬 Rafe: think they bought it?

You giggle soft and breathless as you look down at the text message from Rafe. Another message flashes across the screen.

💬 Rafe: I hope this is ok

💬 Rafe: not sure if this is just a part of your little call center game or if it’s really your number

💬 Rafe: your private number that is

Your stomach flips and your pulse skitters.

💬 Unknown Number: this isn’t some game. This is my number 💕

💬 Unknown Number: and don’t apologize. I crossed the line. I hope that it’s okay.

💬 Rafe: you kidding me?

💬 Rafe: this is a fantasy baby

💬 Rafe: and those sounds you made?

💬 Rafe: i swear you came

💬 Unknown Number: I did 💕

Three dots appear, then disappear, then reappear again.

💬 Rafe: baby…

💬 Rafe: holy shit

💬 Rafe: I’m not done

📞 Incoming Call: Rafe Cameron

He swallowed hard—then looked away, embarrassed. Which was hilarious, considering the things this man has begged for on his knees.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

He shuddered. God, he loved that tone.

“…you.” His hips rolled once, helpless. “And your milk.”

Oh.

That explained the dazed eyes, the way his stare kept dropping to your chest, the way he’d sniffed at your shirt earlier like he didn’t realize he was doing it.

“Yeah?” you murmured. “Wanted to taste again?”

His breath hitched like you’d squeezed something deep inside him. “Please.”

You leaned back against the pillows and guided him closer until his chest pressed to yours, his cock already hard where it rested against your stomach. He was trembling—poor thing had worked himself up on nothing but imagination.

Your shirt came off, and he lost whatever sliver of control he had left.

“Sweetheart…” His pupils blew wide. “Oh, god.”

You cupped the back of his head and guided him down. The second his mouth closed around your nipple, Bucky moaned—full-body, shameless, broken—and suckled like he’d been starving for days.

“Good boy,” you whispered.

His hips jerked.

You didn’t even touch his cock. Didn’t need to. Just kept his head where he wanted to be, fingers in his hair, his breath shuddering while he sucked greedily, messy and desperate.

Warm wetness beaded as he coaxed your milk out—and when it hit his tongue, Bucky whimpered. Actually whimpered.

“Fuck, doll—'s so warm—taste so good—please don’t make me stop—”

“I’m not stopping you,” you said gently. “Take what you need.”

He practically melted against you, body going boneless while his mouth worked you slowly, rhythmically, sucking in little pulses that made your stomach flutter.

Your free hand slid down and wrapped around his cock—already leaking, already aching.

Bucky choked on a moan around your nipple.

“Easy,” you warned, stroking him just enough to keep him whining. “You’re already close.”

He nodded frantically without lifting his mouth, hips rocking helplessly into your hand.

“You want my milk and my pussy, huh?” you murmured.

He gasped and broke away from your breast just long enough to say, “Yes—yes, please, doll, wanna be inside—wanna fill you up—please, please—”

You guided his mouth back down and he latched instantly, shaking.

And when he got like this—small, sweet, submissive, needy in a way he’d never admit when the sun was up—there was no force on earth more obedient than James Buchanan Barnes.

You eased him onto his back only long enough to straddle him, line him up, and sink down slowly. His head fell back, throat exposed, mouth falling open with a strangled, wrecked sound.

“Inside me now,” you breathed. “There you go. Good boy. Deep, isn’t it?”

His fingers dug into your hips like he was trying not to cry.

“So deep…” His voice broke. “Doll—oh fuck—”

You rolled your hips and leaned forward to let your breast brush his mouth.

He latched again instantly.

It was insane how fast he fell apart like this—how the combination of being inside you and sucking your milk turned him into something undone, pliant, shaking beneath you.

“Look at you,” you whispered. “Such a sweet boy. Sucking on me while I ride you.”

His cock twitched, his stomach flexing.

You clenched slowly around him.

Bucky whimpered—barely holding himself together.

“Can feel you getting close,” you murmured against his ear. “You wanna give me a baby, sweetheart?”

He moaned—a sharp, raw sound—and his hands flew to your waist like he was trying to grab onto reality.

“Please,” he panted against your breast. “Please, doll—want it so bad—wanna fill you—wanna keep you full—”

Your hips rolled harder, deeper.

“Then give it to me.”

He sobbed.

Actually sobbed.

His body arched into yours as he came harder than you’d felt in weeks—hot and deep, pulsing inside you while he never once let go of your breast, still suckling through every shudder of his orgasm like it grounded him.

He was trembling, overstimulated, whining softly against your skin as you milked every last drop out of him.

You didn’t stop riding him.

Not yet.

He gasped, fingers scrambling for your hips in overwhelmed panic.

“D-doll—too much—”

“No,” you whispered, keeping the pace slow, deep, punishingly tender. “You wanted this. You’re gonna give me everything you’ve got.”

His head fell back, eyes rolling.

Your thumb stroked his cheek.

“Breathe, baby. You can take it.”

He shook under you—metal hand gripping the sheets, flesh hand clutching your waist—caught between pleasure and the softest, sweetest kind of overstimulation.

“Doll—oh god—y-you’re gonna make me—”

“You’re going to come again,” you told him. “And you’re going to do it while sucking my milk.”

Bucky whimpered, utterly defenseless.

You guided his mouth back to your nipple, holding him steady.

“There,” you murmured. “Open.”

He obeyed instantly.

You rocked down harder—slow, deep strokes that kept him right on the edge—and the moment your milk hit his tongue again, something inside him broke.

He came a second time with a muffled cry against your breast, cock twitching wildly inside you, legs shaking, body arching off the mattress like he was offering himself up to you.

You held him through all of it—kept his mouth on your nipple, kept your body pressed to his until the tremors eased and all that was left was a soft, wrecked, milk-drunk Bucky melting beneath you.

When he finally loosened his hold, he blinked up at you with glassy blue eyes, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and wet.

“…hi,” he whispered, dazed.

You smoothed his hair back gently. “Hey, sweetheart.”

He smiled—slow, dreamy, ruined.

“Think I love you.”

You kissed his forehead.

“I know.”

He curled into your chest, still inside you, still soft and warm and full of your milk and his own bliss.

And in the faintest voice, barely audible:

“Can we do it again?”

You laughed softly.

“Tomorrow.”

He sighed, smiling against your skin.

“‘Kay…”