It Can’t Be You (The Four Points Mafia #4)

Chapter 1

Lyon, France

“Mmm, yeah… you want that, don’t you, baby? Want me to soak your big fat cock? Let you stretch my little pussy until I’m ruined?”

My voice rolls like velvet, every syllable a promise wrapped in sin.

I pinch my nipple between blood-red acrylics, my back arching just enough for the camera to catch the sheen of sweat glistening across my curves.

The custom black mesh lingerie clings to me like a second skin, my pierced nipples peeking through, daring them to reach through the screen and take them between their teeth.

The vibrator nestled between my thighs presses against the lace of my underwear.

Just enough to hint, to tease, to make them ache.

The trick is always to show just enough—to edge them with the idea of what could be, what might be theirs if they only tipped higher.

Camming is an art and a science wrapped in lace and sin.

It takes more than flashing your tits at the camera to make it in this industry.

You need to be able to entertain, to put on a show to keep them coming back for more night after night.

Only one man ever really saw the girl underneath it all. And he threw her away.

Shaking off thoughts of green eyes and messy curls, I focus on what matters. It’s funny how what started as rebellion—one click, one username, one show streamed in secret—has become my job and salvation wrapped in one.

Despite my mother’s best efforts, I’ve never been self-conscious about my thick thighs, soft stomach, or the way my chest is always on the verge of being indecent.

And in front of the camera, my body is nothing short of a work of art that demands attention, which my loyal subscribers are only too happy to give.

JimsCuntDestroyer: Come here slut, let me wreck that hole.

AdamsLadder: Twist those tits till they’re red raw.

CometoDaddy: I want to see you gape that cunt. Make it wide enough for me to crawl in.

MistressE: Such a perfect little toy. Show me how pretty you come.

Watching their words, their needs, and their twisted little fantasies scroll past has adrenaline flooding my veins.

I’ve always been a people pleaser, so getting real-time praise thrown at me for doing little more than teasing them with what’s to come is like an aphrodisiac.

Making mental notes of their fantasies for later, I play the part of the needy, desperate camgirl and feed them everything but the truth.

The truth is, I love this. Not for the money, though it’s great.

Not for the praise, though I’ll soak that up and beg for more any day of the week.

What I adore most about this job is the control.

The power of being wanted on my terms. Of being able to dictate how and when they get me, and just how much or little they get each time.

They might ache for me, obsess over me, and pay my bills, but I decide how close they get and what version of me comes out to play each night. It’s the most honest relationship I’ve ever had.

“Hmm, you guys want more?” I whisper, drawing out the tease. “How badly do you need it?”

I shift to my knees, letting the camera catch the curve of my hips as I toy with my bra strap, letting it slip just enough to expose a flash of areola before pulling it back. Teasing and taunting them with the idea of more. Twisting a lock of brown hair around my finger, I pout at the lens.

“I need to come… and I know you do, too.”

The toy shifts as I move, and the vibrations against my clit has my breath hitching. Reaching down, I draw it out slowly, wetness shining as I hold it up for the camera. The chat goes wild. Screaming, desperate, utterly filthy demands flooding my screen. God, I love this shit.

That’s when he shows up.

BegForMe: Taste yourself.

Two words. That’s all it takes to have every nerve in my body snapping to life, hot and electric. Every inch of me tenses. That username—the man behind it—cinches around my throat like a collar. I should be over it. Over him.

It’s been a year since I last laid eyes on him.

Since he stood by and watched them crucify me.

But no matter how far I run, his grip lingers like phantom bruises on my hips.

I can still hear him in those words. The way he used to whisper them against my neck, rough with need.

The way he kissed me after, tasting me for himself like it meant something.

Like we meant something. But that was before, and this is the bitter after.

I raise the toy to my lips. My tongue flicks out, slow and deliberate.

I lick it like I used to lick him—long, slow strokes teasing the head before sucking it in and tasting myself.

Moaning around it, my eyes flutter closed, and for a second, I forget this is for show.

The chime of my tip jar brings me back to the here and now, and with hooded eyes, I look at the camera with a smirk playing on my lips.

“Mmm... fuck. I taste so sweet. Want a taste?” The toy glistens as I offer it to the camera for their inspection. The movement has my bra slipping once again, exposing the pink-tipped barbells threaded through my nipples.

AdamsLadder: I want to rip those bars out with my fucking teeth.

BegForMe: Get in line.

My lips twitch. Typical. He never could stop himself from being a possessive bastard. I used to tease him for being such a typical redhead and in retaliation he’d tickle me until I couldn’t breathe and then kiss me until I forgot all about whatever stupid shit he’d done.

The chat explodes into bickering and threats, a digital pissing contest that leaves me laughing as I cup my breast and exchange the vibrator for a dildo and slip it back between my thighs.

Shifting on my knees, I grind down over the toy and let myself get lost in the pleasure.

This real, raw enjoyment I let my viewers see is why I’ve been ranked amongst the top five on Tempt for the past two years.

Men may be simple but there’s something about real pleasure versus that fake shit that they can sniff out.

But the bittersweet truth is that no matter how much they tip me, no matter how filthy their demands are, or how much they offer in hopes of a private session, I can’t bring myself to accept because they’ll never compare.

Not to him.

Not to the man who got every unfiltered, raw and honest part of me. The one who saw me, used me, and left me bleeding in the echoes of broken promises and shattered dreams.

Matthew O’Malley.

My stepbrother. My first love and my first heartbreak. The man who was never really mine, but always felt like he was. The man who did nothing, when I needed him to do something, and yet still thinks he has the right to watch my streams.

This hot-and-cold game we’ve been playing for four years is getting real fucking old. But something keeps me trapped in the loop, something I tell myself is revenge, even as a small, broken part of me fears it’s just me clinging to the only love I’ve ever felt.

Revenge or love, it doesn’t matter. Either way, I keep showing up because I know when night falls, he’ll always come crawling back to watch these forbidden moments.

A private session request flashes across the screen like clockwork.

BegForMe.

Right on time.

Batting my lashes at the lens, I make a show of disappointment for the other viewers. “Looks like I’m being stolen away.” I pout. “But I’ll be back. Same time tomorrow, my loves.”

With a wink and a kiss, I click into the private room and adjust the camera, tilting it down slightly. Just enough to make it feel like he’s hovering above me, the way he used to when he had my body in his sheets and my heart in his hands.

Catching a glimpse of myself, my tits bared, underwear clinging to my damp core and skin flushed, I breathe out, slow and even, as the screen loads. I refuse to appear anything short of cool, calm, and collected in front of him.

He might be the only person who’s ever seen the real me, and once upon a time, he was the person I shared every secret and dream with. But after everything… he’s lost any right he ever had to claim he knows me.

He might know what I sound like when I fall apart—how I taste, how I clench down like a vice on his cock. He knows about my camming, my dreams of having my own fashion line, my need to escape Mafia expectations. But knowing pieces of my life doesn’t mean he knows me.

He’s lost all rights to the soft, vulnerable parts of me.

And yet he has the audacity to slip into my streams under the cover of a username, like I wouldn’t know it’s him. Like he has any right to see me naked and exposed when he couldn’t speak up the one time I needed him to.

What kind of fool does he take me for?

Tonight—like every night we play this sick little song and dance—I’ll remind him exactly what he lost. And I’ll take pleasure in knowing that somewhere in London, the man who broke me is left with a hard cock, my name on his lips, and not a shred of redemption.