Kavinsky's tongue is working you into a mess. It's wet and searing inside you, and you're dripping in embarrassing quantities onto his sheets, pulling at them, trying to bury the throaty little noises you're making in them.
Nothing has ever felt so good in your life. Nothing has ever felt so filthy either. You're about ready to dissolve when his phone rings.
Kavinsky, being the impulsive little shit that he is, of course has to answer. "Proko, my boy. How's it hanging?"
There's chortling on the other end of the line. "It's standing, actually."
"Fuck, bro." The phone lands on the mattress beside you. "Is this a booty call? Can't get off unless I talk dirty to you?"
More chortling. "You're a lot cheaper than a sex hotline. It's a career path you might want to consider."
"Noted. You're on speakerphone, by the way, you cheap fuck." Kavinsky barely gives you time to recover. His hand runs between your thighs, slicking your hole, fondling your balls, pressing his thumb inside. You're struck by the ease of their conversation, how casually they lob insults back and forth. It's on a level you could never hope to achieve with Adam – not that you'd want to, not this exact nastiness, but it's there, this wish, of intimacy.
"I take it you have company," Proko says, a little strained. "Who's the lucky girl this time?"
"You really want to know? Say hi to Proko, Lynch." He punctuates the request with a slap to your thigh.
Proko chokes on a laugh. "Get the fuck out. Lynch? Now you're just lying, K."
"Have I ever lied to you, babe? Why would I make this up? A little support here, Lynch." Babe. A heat flash shoots through your veins like burning gasoline and you're not sure if it's the word or the fingers that slip inside you and curl just right. Your knees jerk and your tight throat strangles what would otherwise have been a yelp.
"What am I supposed to think, man?" Proko retorts. "You're either full of crap or he's not very vocal. 'Cause I can't hear shit."
"Lynch can't come to the phone right now. He's busy being finger-fucked into oblivion."
"Hah. You wish."
Kavinsky's laugh is about the dirtiest sound known to man. "Jealous?"
"Say you miss me."
Proko whines. His breathing is becoming labored now. "Fuck. Fine, I miss your stupid cock."
Another finger forces you apart. "Want to listen how I give it to Lynch?"
A garbled noise answers him. Or maybe it was you.
"You still good, babe?" he asks and for a second you think it's you he means.
You recognize the desperation in Proko's voice. It mirrors your own.
"Come for me."
Two sharp breaths later silence follows, then a muffled, stuttering, drawn-out moan. You envy him his release. Your own is not far off.
"Good boy," Kavinsky says, voice gone strangely soft. That does it for you. He sniggers and strokes your back. "You too, Lynch."