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“Worked lunch,” I say. “Then got my ass kicked at disc golf.”

MouthyMike: i wouldnt kick it

BigDog469: any bruises?

“See?” I point at the screen. “This is why we can’t have nice conversations.”

The chat laughs in emojis.

I push a hand over my head, then stretch both arms overhead. My shoulders pull. My chest lifts. The sweatpants slide another inch.

The viewer count climbs.

A few tips come through. Small ones. Just enough to remind me why I turned the camera on instead of flopping onto the couch with a bag of Fritos or calling the lawyer or doing any of the other things I should do besides dick around on the computer.

Work. This is work.

I hook my thumb in the waistband and tug it down just enough to show the line of muscle below my stomach.

“Y’all are needy tonight.”

BigDog469: always needy for you

Then he sends twenty tokens.

BigDog469: plug tonight?

Five minutes in, and there it is.

I glance at the plug off-camera. It sits beside the lube, black and ordinary now.

“Maybe.”

The room jumps.

Maybe always works. Maybe makes them want to earn it.

My eyes flick toward the private-message panel.

Nothing from Bentley yet.

Not that I’m waiting. That would be pathetic.

I snort.

MouthyMike: what’s funny?

“Nothing.” I lean closer to the camera. “You guys are just very predictable.”

MNTopDad: we like what we like

“Yeah,” I say. “I noticed.”

Another tip chime.

I stand and back up far enough that they get the whole line of me: bare chest, gray sweats, tattoo, shoulders, the low hang of fabric at my hips.

The room responds immediately.