15. Lydia
FIFTEEN
LYDIA
O n paper, everything is perfect.
Patrick’s attentive. Generous. Hot as hell. He shows up. Texts every morning. Picks up food without being asked. Leaves love notes in my vape drawer and calls me his girl in every Instagram comment.
And for the first few weeks, I feel lucky.
We play games together. He joins my streams. His flirtation is smooth, cocky, but sweet enough to disarm me. He watches my daughter’s favorite shows with us. Even brings her a plushie from her favorite streamer.
But things change fast.
He starts slipping in little jabs.
“You still play with other guys on stream?”
“You know those simps don’t care about your skills, right?”
“Maybe just leave me off your stories for a bit. Let the mystery work for us.”
He says it with a smile. Like it’s a suggestion. A joke.
But when I hesitate, the smile drops.
And when I push back, he calls me paranoid.
I stop streaming with randoms, only girls, or fans I already know.
I crop him out of photos. Let him post thirst traps without tagging me. I don’t want to start a fight every time he sees my name in the comments of someone else's video.
I want peace.
And Patrick gives it, at least for a while.
Especially in the bedroom.
That night, I’m in one of his oversized tees, hair up in a claw clip, no panties underneath. We’d just finished watching a movie. Something dumb with guns and cars and testosterone. I zoned out halfway through.
But Patrick has been watching me.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.
I go willingly, already buzzing from the weed and the wine.
He sits on the edge of the bed, pulling me into his lap, his hand sliding under the tee to cup my ass.
“No panties?” he asks, voice dark.
I shake my head, grinding my bare pussy against his jeans. “Didn’t see the point.”
He growls and stands, tossing me onto the bed like I weigh nothing. The clip falls out of my hair as I hit the mattress, legs spread, shirt riding up.
“Stay like that,” he growls.
I do.
He undresses slowly. Purposefully. Pulling his shirt over his head, revealing those cut abs, ink curling up his side like it means something important. He undoes his jeans one-handed and lets his cock free, hard, thick, and already glistening at the tip.
He climbs between my legs, kissing up my thighs, and then…
Ignores me completely.
He rolls me onto my stomach.
Yanks my hips up.
And slides in from behind without warning.
I gasp. Loud. My forehead pressed to the sheets, the stretch making my eyes roll back.
His hands grip my hips like he’s claiming something.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans, thrusting slow and deep. “You’re so fucking wet already.”
He pulls out almost all the way, then slams back in, making the bed frame creak. I cry out, clutching the blanket beneath me, body jerking with every sharp snap of his hips.
“You like this?” he pants. “Getting fucked like a good girl?”
I moan something that sounds like yes. Or maybe his name. Or maybe, Trip.
It slips out of my throat like a breath. Half a syllable. Barely audible.
But I hear it.
And it isn’t Patrick’s name.
It’s the one I’ve been trying not to think about for a week. The one I’ve muted on Snapchat so I don’t send anything risky while I’m high. The one I think about when I come alone in the dark with headphones in, replaying his videos like prayers.
My whole body tenses.
Patrick didn’t hear it, or didn’t acknowledge it; he’s too far gone.
He grabs my hair, yanks me upright until my back is pressed to his chest, cock still deep inside me.
“You’re mine,” he growls in my ear. “You know that, right?”
I don’t answer.
I’m too busy chasing my orgasm, grinding against him, hand slipping between my legs to circle my clit to get myself off before he comes. I moan louder, messier, until I come with a scream that echoes through the room.
He isn’t far behind, slamming into me one final time before spilling inside me with a grunt, breathing heavy against my neck.
We collapse together. Tangled. Sweaty. Quiet.
Later, when he falls asleep wrapped around me, I roll over and stare at my phone.
Trip’s name is still muted.
My message still unread.
Still there.
I hover my thumb over his name.
Then shut the screen off.
But not before opening TikTok and scrolling down until I find his most recent video.
It’s short.
His gloved hand is gripping a belt. The creak of leather. The sound of a chair scraping across the floor.
Caption:
“Let him put you to sleep. I’ll be the one you dream about.”
I bite my lip.
And don’t sleep at all.