Hotline Desires

Two

The shift ended the way it always did—my ears buzzing, my throat scratchy from a night of faking orgasms and whispering filthy lies into strangers’ ears.

“Another glamorous evening at the office,” I muttered as I shut down my console. Maya blew me a kiss, Lola tugged her purse strap higher, and the rest of the girls scattered into the night like glitter.

I slipped my jacket on, checked my lipstick in the reflection of the glass door, and texted Chloe: Bar. Now. I need alcohol to bleach my soul.

Her reply came within seconds. Already waiting. You’re late. As usual.

The bar wasn’t far. Warm light spilled from the windows, laughter humming through the door when I pushed it open. And there she was—Chloe Monroe, sprawled in a booth like she owned the place. Which, knowing her, she probably could if she wanted to.

Her champagne-blonde hair was twisted into something artful that looked accidental. Diamond studs winked at her ears. A silk blouse that probably cost more than my entire rent bill clung to her like it was designed for her body alone.

And me? I was still in my work clothes and carrying the faint smell of cheap perfume from a night of “fantasy.”

Chloe waved dramatically. “Finally. My poor liver was starting to feel neglected.”

I slid into the booth, snatching the cocktail menu from her perfectly manicured hands. “Please. Your liver has trust issues by now. What are you even drinking?”

She raised her glass. “French 75. Don’t act like you’re not jealous.”

I flagged down the waiter. “Whiskey sour. Strong. And keep them coming until I stop insulting her.”

Chloe arched a brow. “So… eternity?”

I smirked. “Exactly.”

The drinks arrived quickly, and I downed half mine in one go. God, the burn felt better than a paycheck.

“So,” Chloe drawled, eyes glittering. “How many lonely men did you moan for tonight? Or should I ask… how many sad little boys did you bankrupt with your dirty mouth?”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Two men, one woman. The woman was surprisingly hot. The men… let’s just say I should’ve charged a stupidity tax.”

Chloe leaned forward, chin propped on her palm. “And yet, you still refuse to let me rescue you. I could write a check right now, Jade. Pay off your bills, buy you a car that doesn’t sound like it’s dying every time you start it—”

“Nope.” I jabbed my finger at her like a warning. “We’ve talked about this. I don’t take handouts. Not from men, not from family, not even from my ridiculously rich best friend.”

Her lips curled into a sly grin. “Ridiculously rich and generous. Don’t forget generous.”

“Generous in reminding me you’re rich.” I sipped my drink, giving her my best unimpressed stare.

She laughed, loud and unbothered, tossing her hair back. “God, you’re impossible.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

“Which is why we work.” She clinked her glass against mine, her diamonds flashing. “To impossible women.”

“To impossible women,” I echoed, the whiskey warming my chest.

We fell into easy chatter, gossiping about her latest not-boyfriend and my coworker’s ridiculous fake moans. Chloe teased, I rolled my eyes, and somehow we balanced each other out the way we always had.

By the third round, my lips were loose, my laughter spilling freely. I let her talk me into dancing near the jukebox, heels clicking against the sticky floor, while she reminded every poor man who looked her way that they couldn’t afford her taste.

And for a little while, I forgot about the weight of the night, the voices in my headset, and the nagging feeling that something different was coming.

Because it always does.

---

I hugged Chloe goodbye outside the bar, her driver pulling up while I waved like a clown on too many whiskey sours. “Text me if you get laid!” she shouted out the window, and I flipped her off with a grin, stumbling toward the busier street.

The night air bit cold, but inside me? Hot. Buzzing. The drinks, the laughter, the hours of dirty talk with faceless men and women earlier—it had all piled up into this thick ache between my thighs.

By the time I reached my building, my fingers were already in my bag, scrolling through names I had no business calling. Nope, nope, definitely not him… ah. Eric.

Eric was perfect for nights like this. Tall, broad, uncomplicated. He didn’t linger, didn’t talk about “us,” didn’t even try to be charming. He came when I needed to get off, and left before I remembered why I hated sleeping next to someone.

I tapped his number.

“Yo?” His voice was low, lazy, already half-asleep.

“It’s me,” I said, pressing against the cool brick of my apartment entrance. “You busy?”

He chuckled softly. “Not anymore. How bad is it?”

“Bad enough that if you’re not here in ten, I’ll take care of it myself.”

That did it. “Be right there.”

I hung up before I could second-guess myself.

Inside, I kicked off my heels, tugged at the zipper of my dress until it pooled at my feet, and flopped onto the couch in just my panties and bra, head spinning. I didn’t even bother fixing the smudge of lipstick dragging across my cheek.

The knock came faster than expected.

When I opened the door, Eric filled the frame: broad shoulders, fitted t-shirt, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips like he already knew the script.

“Didn’t waste time,” I teased, tugging him in by the collar.

“Didn’t want to keep you waiting,” he murmured, mouth brushing mine before I pulled him down into a hard kiss. Whiskey clashed with the taste of him, and I didn’t care—I wanted messy.

We barely made it past the door. His hands were already on my ass, lifting, squeezing, setting me down against the wall as I clawed at his belt buckle.

“You’re overdressed,” I whispered, biting at his jaw.

He laughed, deep and easy. “So fix it.”

I did. His belt clattered to the floor, jeans shoved down, his c**k springing free—thick, heavy, exactly what I needed. My panties were already damp when he hooked a finger under the lace and shoved them aside.

“Don’t tease me,” I warned, nails digging into his shoulders.

He didn’t. One hard thrust and he was inside me, stretching me open so suddenly my head slammed back against the wall. A gasp tore out of my throat, half curse, half plea.

“f**k,” I hissed, legs wrapping around his waist as he pounded into me with sharp, unrelenting strokes.

“That’s what you wanted, right?” he growled, slamming deeper.

“Yes—god, yes.”

The slap of skin against skin echoed in the small apartment, my moans spilling louder with each thrust. I didn’t care if my neighbors heard. I wanted them to.

His rhythm was brutal, raw. My back scraped against the wall, but the sting only fed the fire. My body clenched around him, desperate, every nerve screaming for release.

“Harder,” I demanded, biting at his shoulder, tasting sweat and skin.

He delivered, hips snapping with enough force to make the picture frames on the wall rattle.

Pleasure coiled tight in my belly, hot and reckless. My nails dragged down his back, leaving red lines. My head fell forward to his neck, mouth open, gasping, moaning, until the coil snapped.

I shattered, crying out his name, my body trembling as wave after wave ripped through me.

He cursed, low and guttural, thrusting harder until he pulled out at the last second, spilling across my stomach, warm and messy.

For a moment, the only sound was my heavy breathing and the faint hum of traffic outside.

Eric smirked, tugging his jeans back up. “Still the best booty call on speed dial.”

I laughed, weak and breathless, reaching for a towel. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just… reliable.”

He grinned, kissed my forehead—too soft, too sweet—and left without another word.

Alone again, I collapsed onto the bed, body humming, half-drunk and finally sated. No strings, no promises. Just exactly what I needed.