Smitten

When our duet is done, Alessandra gushes about the song. The lyrics. The melody. My voice. And I tell her I’ve never loved the song more than when she sings it. Sighing happily, she lays her guitar on her bed—giving me my first glimpse of her pajamas, since she initially rejoined our chat holding her guitar in her lap.

“Fucking hell, woman,” I breathe. “You look so hot right now, I can’t stand it.”

She blushes. “I do?”

“Oh, honey. Baby. Yes, yes, you do.”

Oh, fuckin’ A. She’s a wet dream. She’s not trying to look hot in that simple pink tank top and soft shorts. But she sure as hell does. Even hotter than she looked that very first day in her purple bikini. Why? Because, tonight, she looks sultry. Relaxed. Sensuous. Not to mention, I can perfectly surmise the natural shape of her small, braless breasts in that tank, including the stiffness of her nipples poking out from behind the soft fabric.

“Do me a favor, honey,” I coo. “Stand in the middle of your bedroom, and do a little twirl, so I can see your full body.”

To my thrill, she doesn’t hesitate. She adjusts her camera and walks into the middle of her bedroom, as requested. And then raises her arms gracefully above her head like a ballerina. “Like this?”

My cock is hard. “Yep. Can I take a photo?”

“Sure. You can take a video, too, if you want.”

“I want.” I press record and lick my lips as she moves gracefully for me on my screen. I say, “You’re better than porn. I’m going to get a lot of use out of this video on lonely nights, if you know what I mean.” Thankfully, she smiles broadly at my comment and doesn’t look the least bit flustered or offended. But, just to be sure, I say, “Is it okay I said that to you?”

“Better than okay,” she replies, batting her lashes. “It turned me on.” She stops her slow movement. “Honestly, I like thinking about you . . . getting yourself off while fantasizing about me.”

And there it is.

Finally.

I haven’t been sure how to nudge our relationship to the next level—to something physical. At least, considering the long distance aspect, to talking about something physical. But, thankfully, Alessandra just made it abundantly clear she’s open to talking about that sort of thing. My cock is rock hard. My heart thumping. “You look gorgeous,” I say, my voice turning husky. “Like a real ballerina.”

“I fake it pretty well. I took ballet for years as a kid.”

“You don’t look like you’re faking it to me. You look ready to star in The Nutcracker.”

She laughs while continuing her slow movement. “Not even close. When I was thirteen, I realized I had to choose between music and ballet classes, so I chose music.” She stops dancing. “Did you get what you wanted?”

“I got a video, if that’s what you mean,” I reply. But what I’m thinking is, I’m not even close to having what I want from you.

Alessandra returns to her bed and adjusts her laptop, so that, now, only her beautiful face is filling my screen again. “You won’t show that video to anyone, right? It’s just for you.”

“Of course. It’s for my private viewing only. Like I said, on lonely nights.”

She bites her lower lip. “I didn’t mean to imply I don’t trust you, by asking that question. I do. It’s just that I’ve just never done anything like this before, so I don’t know what’s normal or not. I just want to be sure we’re on the same page.”

I’ve been assuming Alessandra is a virgin, based on various things she’s said. But, now, I feel like she’s given me a natural opening to find out for sure. Not that it matters to me, either way. But I think it’d be helpful for me to know exactly what she’s thinking in terms of our relationship becoming physical one day.

“Hey, Ally. If this is too personal, tell me. But . . . are you a virgin?”

She nods. “That’s weird, huh? I’m almost twenty.”

“Not at all. I was older than you when I lost my virginity. I was twenty-one.”

She looks surprised. “I thought I was the only twenty-year-old virgin in the world.”

“That’s how I felt, too. Especially in the crowd I grew up with. They’re a horny bunch.”

She laughs. “Who was your first?”

I shrug. “Just this British girl I’d met in London, right before my band kicked off our first tour, opening for Red Card Riot.”

“Did she come with you on the tour?”

I try not to smile at the absurdity of her question. The innocence of it. The lack of understanding of how tours work—and who I was during that time in my life. “No, it was a one-night stand.”

“Oh.” She blushes, obviously realizing her question was a naïve one.