Chapter 7 Jordan
JORDAN
Irub myself harder, letting the moan build in my throat before releasing it. Breathy and practiced, making it just desperate enough to sound real.
"Does that feel good, baby?" I ask the screen, my voice dripping honey. "Are you close?"
That's fine. Most guys get off on the visual alone.
I arch my back slightly, giving the camera a better angle, and let another moan slip out.
The motion is mechanical now, disconnected from anything resembling pleasure. I've done this enough times to know the rhythm, the exact cadence that keeps them hooked and makes this all believable.
Most of the men who come here are lonely.
Horny, sure, but lonely first. They'll finish, thank me, and then we'll do some small talk.
The part where they feel compelled to tell me about their lives.
Their shitty jobs, their loveless marriages, their boring existence.
I've heard it all. The accountant who hates his boss.
The truck driver who hasn't touched his wife in six months.
The college kid who's afraid he'll die a virgin.
I'll pretend to care and be engaged, and then he'll leave, and I'll move on to the next one.
It's a transaction that's clean and somewhat predictable. Above all else, it's safer than doing anything in person.
I slide my fingers lower, pressing inside, and after a few seconds, a box pops up in the center of my screen.
User18290318 has Left.
I freeze.
My fingers stop moving. My legs drop to the floor, and I lean forward, squinting at the notification like maybe I read it wrong.
"What the hell?"
I click on the chat history, scrolling up to see if he said anything before disconnecting that I missed. Nope, nothing. Just his few yeses.
No one's ever done that. Who pays five thousand dollars, watches me finger myself, and then just… leaves. No goodbye, no explanation, not even some pathetic goodbye like ‘Thanks, beautiful or You're perfect.’
I sit back in my chair, staring at the blank screen where his username used to be.
And now I'm the one who feels like shit.
Did I do something wrong? Was I not good enough? Did he look at me and decide I wasn't worth the money after all?
I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. It doesn't matter. I got paid. Five thousand dollars is sitting in my account right now, minus the site's ridiculous cut. That's what matters.
But the feeling lingers. Like I'm the one who got rejected instead of him. It's stupid.
I stand up and grab my silk robe from the back of the chair. I need to take a break. I walk into the kitchen and fill a glass with water from the tap. The cool liquid slides down my throat, washing away the dryness.
I take a seat on the couch and scroll through my phone. Instagram. Facebook. TikTok. Anything to distract myself, but it doesn't work.
I come across pictures of girls I used to know from the modeling days, all of them smiling in Paris or Ibiza or some rooftop in New York. Their lives glittering and perfect.
Mine reduced to this.
I don't even know why I follow them anymore. We don't even speak. It's like I want to make myself envious and depressed at times.
I set my phone down and stare at the fridge. The bills are still there, stuck under a magnet shaped like a pineapple. Rent. Utilities. Credit card minimums.
The five thousand helps. It helps a lot.
But it's not enough.
I could go back online and make more. Why stop when I'm already set up?
Screw it.
Who doesn't want more money?
I down the rest of the water, set the glass in the sink, and head into the bathroom to pee and wash my hands.
I glance up in the mirror and see smudged mascara, flushed cheeks, hair tangled from the performance. I look like I've been fucked, even though I haven't.
I freshen up and head back into the bedroom. I drop the robe and sit down in front of the camera. I adjust the camera angle and smooth my hair.
I take a deep breath and click the button to go live again.
The screen loads, and within seconds, the chat floods with messages.
You're back!
Missed you, Kat
Why is your bra still on?
I smile, the Kat smile, and lean forward. "Hey, guys. Did you miss me?"
The tips start rolling in. Small ones. Ten dollars, twenty, and a fifty.
I caress the top of my breasts, running my fingers along the lace edge of my bra, and tilt my head to the side. "You're all so sweet to me tonight."
The chat keeps scrolling. Crude comments mixed with compliments. Requests for things I've done a hundred times before and things I never would do.
LoneWolf88 tipped $200: Take it off already.
I lean back, pulling the edge of my bra down, teasing them more. "You know what I love about you guys? You're always so…"
There's a crash. A loud, violent sound of wood and metal breaking. My front door.
Someone just kicked in my front door.
My hand hovers mid-air, my brain struggling to process everything.
Then I hear heavy footsteps thunder down the hallway.
I jump up, my chair clattering backward, and I nearly fall as I stumble toward the bedroom door.
I yank it open.
Holy fuck, he's here.
The tall Romanian man from the club. The one who wiped blood off my cheek. The one who took my ID and said that word I didn't understand.
He's storming down the hallway toward me, his suit jacket gone, his white shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing his tattooed arms.
His face is a mask of fury. His eyes are dark, almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle ticking beneath his skin.
I step back, gasping, my hands fumbling for the doorframe.
He doesn't stop. He doesn't even look at me.
He just barrels past me into my bedroom, his massive frame filling the small space. His gaze locks onto my camera setup, and before I can say a word, he grabs the ring light and rips it from its stand.
It crashes to the floor, the bulb shattering into a thousand pieces.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I scream. "You can't be here!"
He doesn't look at me, "I am the only one who should be here."
Then he yanks the cords from the wall. My laptop charger, the camera cable, everything that's plugged in, and hurls them aside.
My webcam dangles uselessly from its USB cord, swinging like a pendulum.
My laptop teeters on the edge of the desk, and he knocks it off with one violent swipe of his hand. It hits the floor with a sickening crack.
"Stop!" I shout, my voice shaking. "Stop it!"
He's huffing now, his chest rising and falling like he just ran a marathon. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, and when he turns to me, the rage in his eyes steals the air from my lungs.
The terror from the club rushes back. The gunfire. The blood. The way he looked at me.
But this time, I find my voice.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I snap, my hands shaking. "You can't just kick in my door and destroy my shit! Who the fuck do you think you are?"
He takes a step toward me, towering over me, and I step back.
"You don't sell this anymore," he says, his voice low and dangerous. He points to my body, his hand steady even though his breathing isn't. "It's not yours anymore."
I stare at him, my mouth hanging open, trying to push out words.
"You belong to me now," he continues.
My heart hammers in my chest.
"What?" I ask in a low tone.
He takes another step toward me, and I take a step back, my back hitting the wall.
"You heard me," he says. "No more streams. No more private shows. No more men watching you."
My fight-or-flight system kicks in, and I laugh despite the terror clawing at my chest. "Are you fucking insane? I don't belong to anyone. Especially not you."
"You heard what I said, and you're going to listen," he says.
The heat in the room shifts. It's not just anger radiating off him. It's something else, too.
"HA! You don't own me, and you can't just show up here and destroy my things and tell me what to do. Who the hell do you think you are?"
He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Matei Ionescu," he says, like the name should mean something.
"Well, Matei Ionescu," I snap, even though every instinct in my body is screaming at me to shut up. "I don't care who you are. Get out."
He doesn't move.
Instead, he takes another step closer, and I press harder against the wall. There's nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.
He just stands there, towering over me, his presence swallowing the room whole.
I meet his eyes with every bit of courage I have. "I said get out!"
His face turns to a smile that's almost scary.
"What?" I ask, my curiosity colliding with my fear.
"You think you have a choice in all this," he says, his voice softer now but no less dangerous. "You think you can tell me no."
"Yeah, I…"
He reaches out and grabs my wrist, the one with the butterfly tattoo, and pulls me toward him.
I gasp, my body colliding with his firm chest, and the scent of him hits me all at once, cologne and something dark and woody.
"You're mine," he says, his voice a low growl against my ear. "From the moment I saw you at that club, you were mine. And I don't share what's mine."
"Let go of me," I say, twisting my arm, trying to pull free, but his grip is firm.
After a few seconds, he releases my wrist and steps back, his eyes raking over me like he's cataloging every inch of my body. The lace barely covers anything, and I feel exposed in a way I never did on camera.
"Get dressed," he says, his tone firm. "We're leaving."
I stare at him, my mind racing. He's serious. He's completely fucking serious.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, my voice breaking. "What do you want from me?"
His hand reaches out to cup my chin. His fingers are frim on my skin, and the darkness in his eyes doesn't fade.
"Everything," he says.
And then he turns and walks toward the door, pausing in the doorway. "Five minutes, fluture. Get dressed. Or I'll do it for you."
He disappears into the hallway, and I hear him talking to his men standing in my living room.
I stand frozen, my heart pounding, my mind screaming at me to run.
But where would I go?
He knows where I live. He knows about my cam shows, and he just destroyed the only way I had to make money.
I look at the shattered ring light, the broken laptop, the cords tangled on the floor.
If I don't go, I'll end up like all this, broken, lying on the floor, or worse, like the Bulgarians from the club.
I brush the hair out of my face with shaking hands.
I am so fucked.