Shit just got interesting.
Chapter Eleven
COVE
I tellmyself this is just another shoot.
Another day, another orgasm, another carefully controlled scene in the archive of Candy. That’s what I repeat on loop as I curl my lashes, glue on the falsies, and dab peach shimmer in the inner corners of my eyes like it’ll make me seem less anxious. Maybe no one else notices the way my hands tremble—but I do.
I haven’t felt like this in ages. Not since my very first live stream or when I took my nursing exam. Not since the moment my finger hovered over the “Go Live” button, heart racing like I was about to expose something far more than my body.
And today? Today I’m doing that again. Except this time, it’s with someone who’s real.
Everest.
I haven’t even seen his face. All I know is his screen name, the way he types with careful curiosity, the way heaskedif I was okay that night. The way he never pushes too far, but still tips enough to make my knees weak. And now I’m about to meet him. Touch him. Climb into a Ferris wheel gondola with him,take his cock inside me, and hope I don’t shatter from the inside out.
“Stop spiraling,” I mutter, pulling the curling iron through the ends of my hair. Loose cotton-candy waves, literal and figurative. They bounce too much, like my nerves.
And then the spiral begins.
What if he’s ugly?
Like… not just awkward or plain but truly hideous like the crypt keeper vibes. Or what if he’s eighty-six and smells like mothballs? Or worse…what if he’s hot but weird? Like, foot-on-my-clit, meowing-during-orgasm weird?
God, what if he doesn’t wash his dick?
I groan and drag both hands down my face, muffling a scream. This is why I don’t do in-person. Behind a screen, I can curate everything. Control everything. I don’t have to worry about someone making weird eye contact while asking if they can “suckle.”
But Everest didn’t give creep vibes. He gave… sincere. Like the kind of guy who says please when he wants to taste you. Who asks if your door’s locked before he jacks off to your voice.
Still. I’m not immune to the roulette wheel of men.
And now I’m about to spin it.
“Talking to yourself again?” Lorna lets herself into my house and sits on my couch, she’s in her BTL logo tee with her phone in one hand and iced matcha in the other. Her brows arch when she sees my outfit laid out on the back of the chair.
“Is that the skirt?”
“It’s the skirt.”
She whistles low. “Sugar and sin. You’re gonna break that poor man.”
“I hope so,” I shoot back, but my voice sounds wobbly, even to me.
Lorna crosses her arms, leaning on the arm of the couch like she’s ready to diagnose me. “You nervous?”
“No,” I lie. Then I add, “Maybe. A little. Okay, a lot.”
She grins. “It’s cute. Like watching a dom panic before a first date.”
“Not a date,” I say, bending to grab the thigh-high socks I plan to pair with the baby-pink platform Mary Janes. “It’s work. I’m an actress. With orgasms.”
Lorna sips her drink and hums, unconvinced. “Sure, babe. Just keep telling yourself that.”
By the time I’m fully dressed, a pastel corset laced so tight it lifts my tits like a gift and a tiny skirt barely brushing my ass, I feel like a walking contradiction. I look like bubblegum. I feel like dynamite.
“What are you doing here anyway?” I ask.
