Chapter 34 #2
I smile into the camera slowly tilting my head, and letting my hair fall forward over one shoulder, the light catching the dip of my collarbone and the smattering of freckles across my chest at the same time.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.
” Pinching one of my nipples, tugging the piercing, I watch his eyes flash with hunger before he adjusts himself.
The glint of his watch against his forearm, shirt sleeves rolled up and tie hanging loose around, his neck has more of an affect on me than I’ll ever admit aloud.
His gaze sharpens, and I see the shift—possessiveness sliding back over him like a second skin. “Don’t tease me too much,” he warns, but his words are missing their usual bite, instead softened by the way he lets out a shaky exhale. “You know what that does to me.”
“I do,” I whisper, because try as I might, I’ve never been able to forget a single detail about Matthew O’Malley.
Not the way he smells, like sin and regret rolled into one forbidden package; or the way he held me as if he was afraid I’d float away if he let go for a second.
And definitely not the things he taught me about building anticipation.
I let my hand travel, slow and calculated, the camera swallowing each inch like a promise.
For a beat, the only sound is my breath and the faint whir of his laptop.
For a beat, it’s just the two of us, and nothing else matters.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs, the command almost tender. His gaze doesn’t waver. “And cut the act, baby. I want the real you.”
The words hit low, a slow ache curling through me. I try to breathe past it, to slip into the role that usually saves me, but the look in his eyes makes it impossible. He sees too much, strips too deep.
My body heats with the memory of his mouth, the taste of him, the sounds he made when I had his cock in my mouth. And now, with just a few quiet words, he’s the one doing the unravelling.
“You already have her,” I confess before I can stop myself. The words slip out raw, stripped of every practiced edge. “You always did.”
His eyes darken, but he waits—silent, patient, pulling the truth from me without touching a thing.
“I need you to make everything else fade into the background,” I breathe. “I need to think clearly… to stop obsessing over things I can’t control.”
Saying it aloud is a gamble—because every honest thing between us has always led somewhere dangerous—but he looks at me like he’s already charted the way through.
Like he knows where the ground gives and where it holds.
Like if I let go, if I give him the reins just once more, he won’t let us crash.
And God help me, I want to believe him. I want to trust that his hands won’t slip this time.
But trusting him means stepping off the edge again—eyes open, heart exposed—and I don’t know if I’d survive another fall. Not like the last one.
For a moment, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, hell, I don’t think either of us even breathe. Then he leans in so close I can count the freckles across the bridge of his nose, see how his eyes have darkened by a shade or two, how the light cuts sharp across his jaw.
He holds my gaze, steady and unflinching, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a low promise.
“Then let me be the thing that doesn’t disappear when the noise comes back.”
The words don’t land like a seduction. They land like a vow.
Something in my chest gives—just a fraction—but it’s enough. Enough to loosen my shoulders, enough to stop bracing for the moment he’ll pull away, or push too hard, or vanish like everyone else eventually does.
I swallow, pulse thudding loud in my ears. “That’s a dangerous ask,” I murmur, trying for lightness and failing.
His mouth curves, but there’s no triumph in it, only patience. “I know.”
And somehow, that’s what ruins me.
He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t bark orders. Just watches—really watches—as I shift, as I let myself lean back a little, testing the space between us.
“So,” I say softly, a challenge threading through the lingering ache in my voice. “You think you can make the world disappear?”
His eyes drag over me with deliberate slowness, a silent dare that hits harder than anything he could say. The weight of it settles over my skin, coaxing a reaction I can’t quite hide. It’s a challenge, and God help me, I want to take it.
“I know I can,” he rasps. “But only if you stop hiding from me.”
The shift in him is subtle but unmistakable—the tenderness giving way to something heavier, hungrier.
“Lose the mask, baby,” he says, voice roughening, desire threading through every word. “Let me see that pretty face. That’s my girl.”
My breath stutters, fingers already lifting as if my body made the decision before my mind could catch up.
“Now,” he continues, low and intent, “let’s get rid of that bra. Massage those tits for me. I know they’re aching for attention.”
And I do it, not because he told me to.
But because, for the first time in a long time, letting go doesn’t feel like falling.
It feels like being caught.
Tilting my head back, eyes heavy-lidded, I watch his reaction flicker across the screen. Every muscle in him seems to tighten, every inhale deliberate, like he’s memorising each small movement.
“You remember how good it feels to surrender, don’t you?” he growls, low and edged with need.
“Yes, Daddy,” I breathe, voice thick with heat. I drag my thumbs lightly over the peaks, rolling the sensitive skin, and the small moan that escapes me is only for him.
“My perfect girl,” he groans, voice thick with need. “Now lean forward for me. Let me see every curve, every inch of you.”
I’m helpless to do anything but obey him, letting the camera angle catch the arch of my back, the swell of my breasts, the soft rolls of my stomach.
My fingers never stop, teasing, tracing, coaxing the response I know he craves.
The heat between us is suffocating, almost physical, like the screen can’t contain it.
“God, Lily…” His voice drops to a growl, his arm moving frantically just out of shot. The thought of him jerking off to the mere sight of me pinching my nipples is so fucking hot it sends a shiver racing down my spine.
“You’re going to make me lose it before we even get started,” he rasps, his jaw tight, and eyes dark with need.
“Is that a problem?” I tease, dragging my thumbs in slow, deliberate circles around my nipples.
He leans closer to the camera, eyes dark, pupils dilated, and the faint curve of his mouth that makes my knees weak. “Fuck no,” he growls. “I love that you drive me insane, almost as much as I love making you pay for it.”
“Keep one hand on those perfect fucking tits and use the other to show me that sweet cunt,” he continues—half command, half plea—and the tension tightens around the two of us like a held breath.
Mindlessly, I obey, slipping one hand down, over my stomach, and dipping below the waistband of the underwear that is doing nothing to cover my pussy.
Holding eye contact with him, I hook a thumb beneath the mesh and tease him with a glimpse of my pussy.
The camera frames it all—the arch of my back, the tilt of my hips, and the way my breath catches when my knuckle grazes my sensitive clit.
“God.” He swallows. “You’re killing me. Are you wet for me, baby?
Show me,” he begs, eyes glued to the screen as I slip my underwear down, letting it pool around one ankle as I dip my fingers inside my pussy.
The contact of my fingertips is soft and teasing; the small, involuntary sound that slips from me is immediate and raw, a punctuation that makes him inhale hard on the other side of the glass.
His eyes rake me, dark and hungry. “Fuck me,” he breathes. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
I draw my fingers back and hold them up for him, showing him the moisture there.
“All for you,” I whisper, the words coming out thick with everything they mean—ownership and offering, promise and dare.
“Taste yourself,” he orders, voice low and brittle with need. Doing so draws another, quiet broken sound from him, and I can’t help but moan, both at the taste and hearing him so gone for me.
“Are you going to be a good girl and touch yourself for me? Show me how you like that pretty little clit played with?”
I nod, heart hammering, fingers hovering over myself as his gaze pierces through the screen. “Yes,” I whisper, voice shaky, desperate. “If that’s what you want.”
He growls, low and dangerous, the sound vibrating through me like electricity. “Be a good girl for Daddy and show me what I’ve been missing out on.”
I sink two fingers inside, slow at first, teasing myself in rhythm with the way he’s watching.
Something about his camera being on and my mask being off makes this feel a hundred times more intense than all the times that have come before now.
There’s no hiding who we are or what we’re doing anymore.
His breathing stutters, rough and uneven, as if he can’t handle just looking. “Fuck… you’re perfect,” he rasps. “God, baby, don’t stop.”
My fingers move faster, teasing the sensitive spot I know makes him shiver through the glass. I tilt my hips, moaning when the motion brings me closer, the sound spilling into the quiet room. “You like that?” I whisper, even as I’m shaking, melting under my own touch and the way he’s watching.
“Yes,” he groans, voice breaking. “So fucking much. Don’t stop, baby… I need it.”
I’m trembling, fingers slick and moving faster, hips rolling, trying to match the pace I imagine he wants, the pace I need. My breath comes in ragged bursts, each moan dripping into the silence between us. “Matt… please…” I whisper, almost begging, my voice thick with need.
He groans, head falling back, arm moving faster as he watches me. “God… baby, you’re killing me… so perfect… so fucking mine,” he rasps. Every word is fire, burning straight through me, making my body tighten and ache.
I press my palm harder against myself, circling the spot that makes me weak. My other hand tugs at my clit piercing, lips parted, eyes locked on his across the screen. The room is heavy with sound—my moans, his low groans, and the wet, slick music of my own body.
His chest heaves. “You don’t even know what you do to me… the way you move… God, I need you…” His voice cracks, raw with obsession and hunger.
The pleasure coils tighter, every nerve ending alive. I can feel it building, a fire spreading through me, desperate and unrelenting. I bite my lip, trying to hold back a scream, but it comes out in a shaky, ragged moan.
“You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?” he growls, leaning toward the screen as if he could close the distance and claim me right there. “Show me, baby… show me all of it.”
My fingers move with a frantic rhythm now, every stroke pushing me closer. “Matt… I—” My voice breaks, breathless, and a hot, shuddering wave rips through me. My whole body clenches, cries spilling from my lips as I let go completely, fingers slick and trembling, shaking with the force of it.
He groans so loud I can feel it in my bones, face dark and desperate. “Mine,” he hisses, teeth clenched, voice raw. “Always mine.”
I collapse back, chest heaving, sweat slicking my skin, fingers trembling—the evidence of what we just shared across the glass.
Even apart, even through screens, I feel him deep inside me—the pull, the claim, the fire.
I can still hear the low brush of his voice, feel the ghost of his hands trailing along me, the memory of his heat searing through the distance.
And I know, with absolute certainty, there is no one else. I was a fool to ever convince myself otherwise.