AdamsLadder:Get fucking lost, Beg.
CometoDaddy:Damn, she just dropped the hammer.
FuckMePlease:Bet he’s punching the air right now.
BegForMe:I’ll triple your fee.
BegForMe:Stop playing games.
BegForMe:Please. I need this. I need you.
I blow him a slow kiss, pressing my gloss-slick mouth close to the camera. Then I tilt my head, letting my hair fall forward, giving the viewers a fleeting glimpse of cleavage and the delicate bow between my breasts.
“Maybe next time,” I purr, running my tongue over my bottom lip. “If you behave.”
Then I mute him.
And the tension snaps like a taut wire cut clean through
Applause and dirty praise flood the chat, usernames tipping high, pouring tokens in tribute to the girl who held her own.
But behind the mask, my chest rises and falls too fast, my breath ragged. My bodysuit is soaked through, the mesh sticking to my folds, the satin cutting deliciously into my hips as excitement races through me.
Because for the first time, Matt was the one to slip up, to show weakness and vulnerability in a way I’ve seen him do before. Seeing him this close to begging has me wanting to see just how far I can push him.
Chapter 21
The second she mutes me, it’s as though the entire screen goes dark, even though her image is still there. My blood pressure spikes so high I think my veins might burst. My fists clench until my bones ache, my jaw locked so tight it feels like I’m grinding stone between my teeth. Something shatters inside my chest at being shut out so effortlessly.
I stare at the glowing feed, at the girl I’ve tried to convince myself I can live without, and the fury that surges through me feels like being skinned alive.
Muted.
In front of everyone.
Shemutedme.
Humiliatedme.
I slam the laptop shut and shove it off the desk, and the crash of metal and glass shattering against the floor echoes through the room. It bounces open, a hairline crack zigzagging across the screen but I barely notice. My pulse pounds in my ears, my breath coming in ragged bursts as though I’ve just run ten miles through enemy fire.
Who the fuck does she think she is?
One night, she’s moaning my name around a toy made to match my cock, and the next, I’m just another faceless nobody in a chat full of strangers, my name drowned out by a sea of usernames and filthy emojis.
I rake my nails down my face, desperate for pain, for something, anything, to anchor me in my body before I combust from the inside out.
And the worst part is, I can’t even pretend she’s wrong.
Because I am the pathetic asshole who folded under pressure. The bastard who let them shove her into exile and barely lifted a finger. And now I’m reduced to creeping through digital shadows, sneaking glimpses of her like some goddamn voyeur instead of the man who’s supposed to protect her, all while desperately looking for some shred of evidence of her innocence.
My hair catches between my fingers, my scalp burning as I tug hard enough to feel the sting. My nerves feel like live wires sparking beneath my skin, an electrical current of rage and guilt and need twisting together.
I should have held my temper better, but instead, I snapped. Just like Da would have.
But Christ, watching her with those other assholes—those fucking pretenders typing filth like they deserve her, like they’veever touched her skin, like they won’t always come second to me—makes me want to rip the world apart sometimes.
Thinking of her smile after she muted me has me slamming my fist into the wall, knuckles splitting on impact. Bright blossoms of blood spill in delicate rivulets over white paint, staining my silver rings red. I don’t even feel it. All I can feel is her.
