Page 43 of The Summer We Lie

Chapter Nineteen

Dominic

I fucked up.

Staring at the ceiling of my bedroom, I know this with absolute certainty. I shouldn't have come on to her after drinking as much as I did. The rational part of my brain is glad she shut me down, though my cock strongly disagrees. The architect in me—the man who builds perfect structures with clean lines and precise measurements—is furious at my lack of control.

After Skye left me standing there, I'd mechanically put the ice cream bowl in the sink and retreated to my room like a wounded animal. Now I'm staring at my laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, trying to remember the name of that site she's on because apparently, I'm a sadist determined to torture myself further. My self-control has apparently decided to take the night off completely.

I type "girls gone live" into the search bar with deliberate keystrokes, and a website called "Good Girl Gone Live" appears in the results. Something clicks in my memory. I follow the prompts for a new account and when I'm signed up, I search for "cherry"—too many results flood the screen. "Cherry red" narrows it down but still leaves dozens of profiles, faces blurring together as I scroll.

I move through them methodically until I stop dead, my breath catching. Those eyes. I would never have known it was her if I couldn't see her eyes. Even with the ridiculous red wig and heavy makeup transforming her face into someone else's, those eyes are unmistakable—green with flecks of gold that no camera filter could truly disguise.

I click on her profile with a strange sense of inevitability and start watching a public video. The foundation is already cracking beneath me. I'm not even halfway through before "LIVE" starts flashing under her username like a warning beacon.

Fuck. She's live right now. Minutes after leaving my kitchen.

I click on the live feed and hit the subscribe button without hesitation, my credit card information filling in automatically. I don't think I've ever done anything so fast in my life, not even signing off on multi-million dollar projects. When the feed loads, I nearly drop my laptop, my fingers suddenly clumsy.

She's in the shower. Fully dressed in the same clothes she was wearing minutes ago when she was standing in my kitchen, rejecting my advances. The tank top and shorts now soaking wet, clinging to every curve of her body like a second skin. Water darkens the fabric, making it nearly transparent.

My mouth goes dry as desert sand. I adjust myself through my sweat pants, already hard enough to pound nails. This is a foundation I shouldn't be building on, but I can't stop myself.

Then she peels off her wet shirt with agonizing slowness, and I forget how to breathe. Water cascades over her perfect breasts, small but so fucking perfect they make my chest ache. When she touches herself, pinching her nipples between delicate fingers, I groan out loud in the emptiness of my bedroom.

"Jesus Christ."

I free my cock from my pants, wrapping my hand around it with a familiar grip. I'm already leaking, the sight of her doing this right after leaving me—right after I'd tried to touch her—is almost too much for my carefully constructed control. The walls are coming down around me.

She turns, pushing those little shorts down over that perfect ass, and I stroke myself harder. The black thong she's wearing leaves nothing to the imagination, cutting across pale skin that I now desperately want to mark as mine. My hand moves faster, matching her pace as she slides her fingers between her legs, her movements becoming more urgent.

When she turns back to face the camera, playing with herself with increasing desperation, I can tell she's close. I am too, building toward something that feels like demolition rather than completion. The knowledge that she went straight from my kitchen to do this—that she's probably thinking about me while she touches herself—is driving me insane with want.

She leans against the shower wall, water streaming down her body like she's some water nymph come to life. When she pinches her nipple hard, mimicking exactly what I'd done to her earlier, she comes apart, her body shuddering. The sound of her moaning "Oh God, yes" pushes me over the edge of the precipice I've been balanced on. I come harder than I have in years, spilling over my hand with a muffled groan that sounds like her name.

As she brings her glistening fingers to her mouth, I watch, mesmerized by every movement. She tastes herself with obvious pleasure, walking closer to the camera, careful to keep her face obscured. The feed ends abruptly, leaving me staring at her profile page like a man who's just had reality pulled out from under him.

I clean myself up mechanically, mind reeling with the implications. That wasn't her cam persona. That was Skye—the real Skye—raw and unfiltered. And I'm now completely, utterly fucked in ways I can't possibly fix.

Because now I've seen her like this, seen what she did immediately after leaving my presence, there's no way I can pretend I don't want her anymore. No amount of self-control could possibly contain this need.

I groan as the sun slices through my blinds, dragging me from sleep with merciless brightness. Turning over, I yank the covers over my head, trying to block out both the light and the memories flooding back—her wet body in that shower, what I did while watching her. The images play behind my closed eyelids with perfect clarity despite the alcohol.

Fuck. What have I done?

My bladder finally forces me out of bed. When I stand, my head spins violently, and I groan again, pressing my palm against my temple. I need Advil, coffee, and possibly a time machine to undo last night. I piss for what feels like eternity, wash my hands methodically, and brush the stale taste from my mouth. Back in my room, I throw on a comfortable t-shirt and make my way to the kitchen, my bare feet silent against the cool floors.

When I enter, Harper and Skye are sitting at the bar eating breakfast, bathed in morning light. My stomach drops like an elevator with cut cables. Skye's here. Of course she's here—she's staying for the summer. But after last night, seeing her sitting there in the soft morning glow wearing shorts and a tank top similar to what she'd worn in that video... Christ. The fabric clings to her curves in a way that makes my hangover suddenly secondary.

"Good morning, sleepy head," Harper says, eyebrows raised. "It's not like you to sleep so late. I was about to send a search party."

I grab a coffee mug from the cabinet, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Skye. The ceramic feels cool and solid in my hand, something tangible to focus on. "Went out last night. Had too much to drink." My voice sounds rougher than usual, even to my own ears.

I pour coffee into my mug, the rich aroma momentarily clearing my head. I grab the vanilla creamer out of the fridge and add a splash—a weakness I'd deny to anyone but family. Taking a small drink, the warmth spreads through me. "Ahh."

"Okay, so we're hung over," Harper says with a small laugh, watching me with amusement.

"Something like that," I mutter as I search through cabinets for some Advil, aware of Skye's presence like an electrical current in the room.