It doesn’t matter that the world’s burning down around us. That I’m flying to Italy in the morning to chain myself to a life Inever asked for. That she’s dancing for men who think throwing cash at her buys them intimacy. They don’t know her. Not really.
They don’t know the sound she makes when she’s about to cry, the way her breath catches when she doesn’t want to be touched but craves it anyway. Or the weight of her head against their chest, the curve of her back under their palm, the way her voice shakes when she’s trying to be brave.
But I do.
And maybe I don’t get to touch her anymore. Maybe she’s as guilty as her mother, and we were doomed from the start. Maybe everything was a lie.
But late at night, when the rest of the world’s asleep and the only thing lighting the room is the blue glow of her screen, I let myself come back to her. Just for a minute. Just long enough to pretend she’s still mine.
Because I’m not strong enough to quit her cold turkey.
Not when she looks into the camera like that, like sheknowsit’s me watching. Like she’s talking only to me.
Even if I hate her for making me this way.
Even if I don’t trust a single fucking word she says.
Even if she’s never truly belonged to anyone but herself.
She still feels like mine.
And in the hush of night, where no one can see me bleed for her, that lie is the only thing keeping me sane.
Chapter 8
At Matt’s demand for me to strip out of the bodysuit—that took countless hours to hand-sew—filters across my screen, I have to bite back the smirk clawing at my lips. Seeing him this close to snapping never gets less thrilling.
Looking up at the camera through lowered lashes, I finger the front clasp of the mesh cups that do nothing to hide my full breasts as they strain against the delicate fabric. Front closures are a must in this business for easy removal and have the added benefit of allowing me to tease my subscribers with the idea that at any second, Imightjust snap it open.
“What do you think? Should I take this off?” I ask, pouting as I toy with the silky material, letting it stretch tight over my chest. My glossed lips shine under the ring light, and I press themtogether, resisting the grin bubbling up when the chat explodes in needy demands from everyone except Matt.
Who, instead, fades into the background. Silent. Watching.Always fucking watching.
I flip my hair over one shoulder, then slowly undo the clasp with a little sigh, as if I’m exhaling tension. Though the truth is, I’m wound as tight as piano wire. The cups fall open, and cool air kisses my nipples, already stiff and aching. I press my breasts together with a teasing moan, fingers grazing my nipples, remembering how he would nip the delicate skin with his teeth.
I don’t have to fake the sound that escapes me at the memory. My body remembers him too well—the way he used to drive me right to the edge of too much, only to show me how devastatingly good pain could feel when mixed with pleasure. I wonder what it would feel like for him to play with my piercings.
I let my head fall back, spine arching slightly, then look into the camera again. My smile is the kind that makes men forget things—passwords, morals, girlfriends.
“Fuck, that feels so good,” I breathe, my voice soaked in honey and edged with need. “I wish it were your mouth, baby. I want your tongue… your teeth. Don’t you want to taste me?”
Underneath it all, my blood is roaring. BecauseI knowhe’s watching. And I know what it’s costing him.
Flirting with him has always been a terrible idea. But that’s never stopped me before.
A twist to my nipple piercing sends a sharp jolt rocketing straight to my core, and the gasp I let out is anything but fake. Heat rushes through me, pulsing between my legs, leaving me soaked and restless.
But it still isn’t enough.
From beside me, I lift tonight’s toy—a sleek pink dildo, chosen to match tonight's outfit and mask. Everything has to be perfect. After all, aesthetics are everything in this game. Men are simple, visual creatures. Give them a fantasy, and they’ll come crawling.
I stroke the silicone with both hands, slow and worshipful, as if I’m dying to feel it inside me. I let my nails scratch lightly over its length, imagining it warm and alive. The camera catches every greedy caress, and I can practically hear the ragged breaths of men losing their minds on the other side of the screen.
“What do you think, MistressE?” I ask, rolling the toy in my palm and biting my lower lip. “Will this toy do the job?”
The chat lights up.
MistressE:Oh, that is a work of beauty. Show us what you can do with that, gorgeous.
