Chapter 4 When the wife's away, the panties will play

Dima's pov

“Hello. Thank you for calling Whisper. What do you need tonight?” I slip into my easy routine for the night.

I'm currently in my apartment in Boston. I had just finished an ice hockey action game on my phone—and winning, obviously—to distract myself, when I get a ding from the alternate phone I purchased specifically for illicit affairs.

Illicit affairs such as taking calls for whisper.

Why are you still doing this? You may ask. Honestly, I don't know. It's fun. Anything else to get my mind off the fact that I had almost gotten into a fight with Volkov. And got hard from it.

But i'm sure it doesn't mean anything. With the season starting, I've been too caught up with practice to release any tension. So my body took the bait when it saw one.

No way I was attracted to him.

But there's still the buzzing feeling under my skin. That itch. It's been building up with nowhere to go.

“Hello,” a disgruntled voice replies. I hear his lips smack. “My wife and kids are at their aunt's for the night. Trying to see how many times I can cum in her panties.”

Great. A cheating caller.

I hate my life. Okay, I don't. Considering how well off I am now, with my career peaking too. But it's at this specific moment that I just wish I never took this job in my college years.

“Oh,” I respond, trying as hard as possible to mask my disgust. “What color are they?”

I do not want to know what color they are. But these things require professionalism and if there's anything I am, it's professional.

“They're pink, wanna see?”

Maybe I should have just taken someone from the club home.

“That is tempting but I have a better idea. How about I pull those pretty panties to the side and fuck you into the mattress so hard that you cum all over your wife's underwear like the naughty boy you are. Then you can show me.”

I slide my mask back on and says what he wants to hear. Which suck cause Whisper is supposed to be a place where I can be myself—truly. Behind the mask.

The man groans so loudly, I have to move my phone away from my ear a bit.

“Yes. Fuck, I'm so hard. Are you hard?”

No. “Yes.” If there was any chance I would get anything out of this tonight, it has been depleted to zero.

I can hear movements, like sheets being ruffled. “Are you touching yourself?”

I ask.

“Yeah, man.” He groans again. “Can't wait to take your big cock.”

I am not even a top. But I don't say that. Instead I say, “Did I say you could touch yourself? Stop right now.”

“No way, man.” The ruffling sound gets louder. Wood groans and the squeak of headboard against the wall rings out. “Feels so good. Can't stop now.”

A sigh leaves me. Someone would have said it.

The caller from some nights ago. The way he had been so defiant at first, only to be reduced to a crumbling mess.

The dick jumps up as the memories replay in my head and—

Nope. I quickly chase the thought away. Not thinking about him now. He hasn't called back in almost a week. Like I knew he wouldn't.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” The caller lets out a string of curses and a loud thud rings out. He must have collapsed onto the bed. He probably just came too.

“Did you cum too?” he asks after a beat.

I wasn't even touching myself. But there's that thing about professionalism. “Yep.”

“Yeah. That was great, man. Think I'm gonna go to sleep like this. Maybe my wife will come home and catch me in her underwear.” He snickers to himself like a kid who just stole candy.

“Bet she'll love the view. Good night then.” I hang up abruptly. Minus ten points from my professionalism score board.

My watch reads 2:49 am. Not too late to go to a club. Maybe take someone home and ease this itch.

My phone buzzes.

A text message sent through Whisper's inbox. I unlock it to see a pink lacy lingerie with a white substance on the crotch area.

“Fucking hell,” I curse out when my phone buzzes again. It better not be another fetish-induced picture or else I swear—

But it's not my secret phone, rather my personal one. It buzzes again and I nearly drop it.

“Shit.” Luckily I catch the fall with my leg. I bend to pick it up, and a frown breaks out on my face once I see the caller ID.

Robert Hartley.

Why the fuck is the general manager of the New York Rangers, my rival team, calling me at three in the morning?