Chapter 118: Making Her Cum on Facetime 2 (M- R-18)

It was in the tiny twitch of her shoulder, the way her thighs pressed together under the screen, her lip sucked between her teeth like she was trying to bite back a scream and a prayer at the same time.

"You always talk like that..." she whispered, hand shaking just slightly as she tilted the phone down—enough to show skin. Chest. Bra.

The top of her thighs.

Nothing underneath.

Peter’s grin sharpened.

"I talk like that because it’s true," he said, voice dragging over each word like velvet over bruises. "You look like sin wrapped in velvet. Like every bad decision I’d make twice."

She whimpered. Visibly. Soft and sharp and desperate. "Peter..."

"Say it slow," he said, eyes half-lidded now. "Like you want me to make you scream it."

She giggled, cheeks flushing deeper, eyes already glassy. "God, Peter... You’re so—"She broke off with a dazed little laugh, like her brain short-circuited mid-thought. Then her voice dropped—lower, breathier, soaked in need.

"Seriously, what are you? You don’t even look real. I was already getting turned on just

staring

at your face before you even picked up."

Peter cocked a brow, smirk tugging lazy at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah?"

She nodded, slow and dreamy, like she was drunk on him already. "Like... what are you, a god or something?"

He leaned in just enough to let the light catch the sharpness of his jaw, the heat behind his eyes.

"That obvious?"

She giggled again, this time behind her hand like some shy little sinner—but he saw right through it. That giggle was soaked in guilt and filth. She

liked

what he did to her. Liked knowing it was wrong.

His smirk faded, voice dipping hard. "Wait... aren’t you supposed to be home right now?"A pause. A blink. "Don’t tell me your husband’s actually there while you’re talking to me like this..."

Her lips curved into a wicked little grin—one of those

I-don’t-give-a-fuck

grins. "Mhm. He is. Told ya, honey~... he’s in the garage."

Peter stared at her, blinking once. Then twice. "You’re bold as hell, Isa." She had already told him but hearing it hit different.

Call it a man’s pride if you will...

"That’s what makes it fun," she said, tone so light it was almost sing-song—like she was confessing to stealing candy instead of cheating in the bathroom.

And then—

She flipped the camera.

The mirror appeared. Old. Slightly foggy. That marbled countertop. He knew that fucking sink. The pattern in the tile. The exact wall he’d had her pressed against with his hand around her throat and his mouth wrecking her sanity.

"Oh no way..." he muttered, dark laughter curling from his chest.

She flipped the camera back to her flushed face, brushing her hair behind her ear like a nervous schoolgirl. But her eyes? Her eyes were pure heat.

"I wasn’t lying. Same bathroom," she whispered. "The one where you first touched me. The one where I stopped being

his

... and started being yours."

Peter let out a quiet, almost feral laugh. His head thudded back against the stall wall, his breath uneven now. "You just earned yourself a reward."

She pouted, lips plush and sticky with gloss. Then leaned close like she wanted to crawl through the screen. "Promise?"

He leaned in, eyes gleaming. "I don’t break promises to good girls."

Her voice cracked at the edges. Soft. Honest. "I missed you."

"I know," he said. And

he did.

Every fucking second.

His eyes stayed locked on her—hungry, locked in, devouring every flicker of emotion across her face.Then slowly—deliberately—he adjusted the camera. Tilted it just enough so she could see his face again. The cut of his jaw. That smirk that always said

you’re mine and you fucking love it.

"You sure you’re ready to be reminded how ruined you are for anyone else?"

She nodded. Small. Obedient. Already half-gone.

"Good," he said, voice dipping into something darker—lower. Like velvet soaked in gasoline. "Unlock the door. Right now."

She moved instantly—phone swaying slightly as she reached back. The click echoed loud in the silence. Then she sat, legs folding out beneath her. The risk this promised turned her on.

Peter’s voice was a low growl now, every word curling around her like a leash.

"Put the phone somewhere I can see you," he murmured. "I want every inch. Every twitch. I want to watch what my absence did to you."

She moved without a word, not out of fear—but need. Like her body was wired to respond to his voice, no hesitation, no resistance. The phone was propped against the sink’s backsplash, tilted just enough to give him the perfect view.

Isabella settled on the closed toilet seat, her knees drawn modestly together—but nothing about her posture read innocent. Her back arched slightly, tension humming beneath her skin.

The blouse she’d worn was tossed carelessly behind her, a rumpled whisper of what she used to be before she pressed that call button.

She was already transformed.

The burgundy lace bra clung to her like a dying secret, the cups stretched tight, unable to contain the way her chest rose and fell with every ragged breath. Straps hung loose over sun-kissed shoulders, the slightest motion threatening to drag them down entirely. Her skin was flushed in all the places that told on her—collarbones glowing with heat, chest dappled with the kind of pink that only ever bloomed from arousal.

Peter didn’t blink. His eyes darkened with something between hunger and control, and his voice followed with the weight of a man used to being obeyed.

"Take it off," he said, low and precise. "Slowly. I want to see how much you missed me."

Her breath caught like he’d wrapped his fingers around her lungs. One hand trembled as it reached for the strap at her shoulder, but she caught herself—steadying, remembering what he liked.

No rushing. No fumbling.

She exhaled, dragging the strap down with purpose, letting it slide like silk against her skin. The second strap followed, slipping past the soft swell of her arm before her hands moved to the clasp with reverence.

When the lace finally slid down her arms and dropped, her breasts spilled free like they’d been aching to escape—round, high, flushed with heat. Her nipples stood tight, already pebbling just from the drag of fabric and the weight of his stare alone.

There was no cool air in that bathroom, but her skin responded like it had been worshipped by fire and chilled by want all at once.

The breath she released was sharp, half-gasp, half-sigh—like exposure itself was a kind of climax. Her chest rose with it, subtly trembling, like her body still couldn’t believe it was being seen by him again. And Peter?

He didn’t blink.

Just stared—devouring. Like she’d just handed him a secret she could never take back.

Peter tilted his head, his expression unreadable—but there was heat in his eyes that burned through the screen.

"Good girl," he murmured, voice laced with dark approval. "Now spread your legs. Slowly."

She bit her lip, teeth pressing hard into swollen pink. Her hands slid along her thighs as she shifted, lifting slightly to tug her skirt higher. The sound of fabric moving was soft, but to him, it roared. She parted her knees just enough at first—shy, teasing—but the moment her thighs spread wide, he saw it.

Bare. Flushed. Wet. Already glistening for him.

No panties.

He smirked, slow and cruel, his voice curling around her like smoke. "No panties?"

She blinked up at him, lips trembling before she whispered, "I was hoping you’d call me today."

There was no hiding the pride in her voice. No shame. Just want.

Peter chuckled—a dark, knowing sound that made her thighs twitch. "You’re addicted."

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.

He leaned closer to the screen, his jaw sharp, his voice low and commanding. "Touch yourself."

Her breath stuttered in her chest.

"One finger," he continued. "Circle slowly. Don’t go inside yet. I want to see how desperate you’ve gotten for me."

She obeyed without a word, her fingers already moving, parting herself with trembling precision. The moment her fingertip touched her clit, she gasped—head tipping back, knees twitching. Her other hand gripped the counter beside her, fingers curling tight around the edge until her knuckles turned white.

"Eyes on me," Peter snapped gently, his tone a velvet leash. "Always on me."

She forced her eyes open, dragging her gaze back to the phone, to him—his dark stare swallowing her whole. Her pupils were blown wide, lips parted, skin glowing like she’d been carved from need. She was moaning now—soft, barely-there sounds that slipped out with every exhale.

He watched her carefully, drinking in every twitch of her hips, every flicker of pleasure crossing her face. She was unraveling already—and he hadn’t even touched her.

"Faster," he said, voice dropping. "That’s it. Keep going. I want to hear you."