Chapter 2
GentlemanX’s low rumble fills the dim room. “Want to tell me why your day was bad?”
I trace a finger over the laptop’s edge, pretending to consider it. But it’s unprofessional to speak ill of one fan to another, even if that fan is a creep mailing me dirty underwear.
I give him a practiced smile instead. “Not tonight.”
A beat of silence follows, not the awkward kind, but the kind that says he wants to push. Instead, he opts for coaxing over demanding. “Have you eaten?”
My stomach chooses that exact moment to betray me with a growl, loud enough for my microphone to pick it up.
Embarrassed, I laugh and pull a pillow closer to cover my midsection. “Busted.”
“Order something. My treat.” He reaches for his phone. “I’ll get mine here, and we can eat together.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. After a year of private sessions, I’ve learned GentlemanX prefers strange requests over the usual ones.
But dinner?
That’s new, and somehow more intimate than anything else we’ve done. “You want to spend your time watching me eat?”
“I’d love to take care of you,” he replies smoothly. “Now tell me, what’s your go-to when you’re too tired to think?”
The question disarms me.
I bite my lip, scrolling through the delivery apps on my phone. “Honestly? Pad Thai from this hole-in-the-wall place down the block. Extra peanuts, no bean sprouts.”
“Perfect.” The faint clatter of key strikes comes from his end. “Order it. Consider it covered.”
A ding comes through the speaker.
TIP NOTIFICATION
GentlemanX sent 2,000 tokens — “Dinner’s on me. Order whatever you like—and don’t forget the tip.”
I blink at the screen. Two thousand tokens is about two hundred dollars in real life, which means a little over a hundred for me after the site’s cut. My regulars throw down a hundred tokens here, two hundred there, and it’s a big deal.
This? This is grocery money. This is electricity and internet for a month, tossed out with the same casual ease someone else might spend on a latte.
Heat creeps into my cheeks. I’m caught between wanting to laugh, wanting to scold him, and wanting to just melt into the pillows and let someone else take care of me for once.
GentlemanX probably doesn’t even realize what that kind of drop means to me. GentlemanX is a man of means, which he’s done a poor job of hiding over the last year. To him, this is pocket change. To me, it’s the difference between counting bills at the end of the month and breathing a little easier.
“Overkill,” I murmur, though I should have expected it from him. “You could’ve just sent twenty tokens.”
On the other end of the feed, his chuckle rumbles into my ears and straight to my hips. “Then you wouldn’t have ordered dessert.”
I scroll down to that section of the menu. “Since you insist, which sounds better? Mango coconut sticky rice? Or fried bananas?”
“Why not both?”
“You spoil me,” I tease, my fingers already moving.
Within minutes, my food is on its way, and I catch him placing an order of his own, though he doesn’t say what.
While we wait, our conversation wanders. Nothing heavy. We trade favorite comfort shows, laugh about terrible movie sequels, and argue over pineapple on pizza. His low rumble makes everything easier, smoothing over the jagged edges of my day.
When a knock at my door breaks our rhythm, I take the laptop with me and set it on my kitchen table, pointing the camera toward my set so my dirty dishes are out of view.
Then I lean into the screen and wink. “I’ll be back in a second.”
Leaving him, I grab the takeout bag from where the delivery person left it in the hall and bring it inside.
The scent of noodles and roasted peanuts fills my apartment, and my stomach lets out another growl.
This is so much better than the chicken breast and broccoli I planned to eat later, after my private session ended.
When I sit back down, GentlemanX has already taken his delivery containers out of the bag and has them sitting in front of him.
“On three,” he says, holding a pair of chopsticks up to the camera.
I lift mine in answer. “One, two, three.”
We flip back our lids, and a small laugh escapes me. “Did you order yourself Pad Thai, too?”
“It sounded delicious.” He stirs the noodles, which are fewer than mine, with shrimp mixed in, clearly from a higher-end place than mine. “And this way, it’s like we’re at the restaurant together.”
“It does.” A blush creeps up my cheeks.
I’ve shown my body to hundreds of men, but I’ve never been on a date. Is this what people mean when they talk about connection?
We both dig in, chewing in companionable silence for a few moments before he comments, “I caught your stream earlier.”
“You were logged in?” The question comes out teasing, not accusing. He never comments, but I should’ve guessed he was watching, anyway.
He always is.
“Work has been keeping me busy, but I had it playing in the background tonight.”
My chopsticks freeze halfway to my mouth. “You play my channel at work?”
“I’m always working,” he admits. “But don’t worry, I work alone. Most of what I do is virtual. It’s rare for anyone to come to my office. More often than not, I go to them.”
“Ah.” I adjust my mental image of GentlemanX. “Do you get lonely? Or do you like not having to deal with coworkers in your face all the time?”
He falls silent for several heartbeats, long enough for me to worry I crossed the line, before he says, “I grew up in a big family, and they’re all nosy busybodies. I wouldn’t trade them for the world, but I like having my own space.”
Whenever he speaks of his family, it leaves no doubt he loves them, and a pang goes through me.
“I grew up in a crowded home, too.” The admission escapes me before I can stop it. “I understand wanting a space of your own.”
I can sense his questions through the screen, but he never pushes for more personal information than I volunteer.
“The unboxing segment was off today.” His hand moves out of frame, returning with a glass of what appears to be whiskey with a twist of orange peel. “The last package alarmed you.”
Shit, I thought I’d hidden my reaction better.
I lower my head to focus on wrangling my noodles. “It was nothing.”
“Elliot.” The way he says my cam name carries both gentleness and authority. “You don’t need to pretend with me.”
My mouth opens, then closes. The urge to deflect rises, the way it does with every patron. “Would you rather I put on a different kind of show tonight?” I toy with the collar of my sweatshirt. “I can change into a more entertaining outfit.”
His chopsticks tap the side of his container. “The livestream was more than satisfying. I’m happy just spending time with you.”
This is the frustrating contradiction of GentlemanX. He pays premium rates for private time, yet refuses every offer of explicit content. The riskiest thing we’ve done was when I fell asleep on camera last month, and he stayed connected all night, watching over me like some digital guardian angel.
“You’re a strange man,” I mutter, stabbing a piece of chicken. “Most guys want more bang for their buck.”
“I’m not most guys.”
No, he certainly isn’t. While every other client wants to own a piece of me, GentlemanX is content just watching me exist. It’s… unsettling. And addictive.
“Tell me about your week,” he prompts, steering us back to safer waters.
I take a bite, considering how much to share. “My scent suppressants are getting more expensive. The pharmacy claims it’s supply chain issues, but I think they’re price gouging Omegas without insurance.”
“Have you considered switching brands?”
“Can’t. I’m allergic to the fillers in the generic ones.” I poke at my food. “My Heat is due in a few weeks, and I need to stock up. Might have to take on extra sessions.”
He goes quiet, the silence stretching until I wonder if our connection froze. Then, his hand moves to adjust something off-camera. “I’d be happy to schedule additional private time.”
The offer warms me in ways it shouldn’t. He’s a patron, not a friend, despite how our relationship blurs those lines. “Thanks. I might take you up on that.”
We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, and my attention wanders to his strong hands. The way they move leaves no movement wasted. How does he handle his lovers? Does he take control? Or does he prefer someone who leads?
“How’s your friend?” GentlemanX asks. “The one who works security.”
“Saint? He’s good. Paranoid as ever.” GentlemanX already learned the basics when I slipped up a few weeks ago, so it doesn’t feel like giving anything away. “He installed a camera in my hallway last week.”
“Smart man.”
“Overprotective man,” I correct, though my affection rings through. “You two would get along. Both of you treat me like I’m made of glass.”
GentlemanX hums thoughtfully. “Not glass. You’re far more valuable.”
Comments like that tie my stomach in knots. They feel too sincere, too intimate for our transactional relationship. Yet I crave them, collecting each to add to my hoard.
“What about you?” I change the subject. “Any exciting corporate adventures this week?”
He’s mentioned working in security before, which is how I let slip the information about Saint, though Saint is a glorified bouncer while GentlemanX works on the tech end. Today is the first time he’s provided details about his office.
“The usual fires to put out.” His shoulders shift as he leans back in what I imagine is an expensive ergonomic chair. “Though I did attend a charity gala on Saturday.”
“Fancy. Did you wear a tux?”
“I did.”
Of course, he did. I can easily picture the tailored lines, the perfect fit. Did he take a date? I hate the jealousy that rises at the thought. GentlemanX isn’t mine, no matter how much I want him to be.
“I bet you’re handsome when you’re all dressed up.”
“It was… uncomfortable.” The way he adjusts his collar suggests more than physical discomfort. “Too many people with too many agendas.”
“Not a people person?”