Chapter 11
Matt’s flat smells like him in a way that feels like home.
Clean cotton, faint spice, something warm and comforting I’ve come to associate with safety.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor at the foot of his bed, sketchbook balanced on my knee, charcoal smudged across my fingers.
The late afternoon light slants in through the window, catching the edges of fabric swatches scattered around me.
For once, I’m drawing without overthinking it. Long lines and sharp seams. A silhouette that feels like armour and softness all at once. Sketches that I hope one day will do more than just live in my imagination.
Behind me, Matt’s on his bed, laptop balanced on his knees, sleeves rolled up. He’s frowning at the screen like it personally offended him.
“Why,” he mutters, “does this site insist on asking for a ‘flirty bio’ like it’s a bloody dating website?”
I smile to myself, shading in a waistline. “Because capitalism thrives on charm.”
He snorts, and even without looking I know he’s rolling his eyes. “You don’t want me to write ‘loves long walks on the beach’, do you?"
“Only if the beach is a metaphor for something a lot kinkier,” I tease, a smirk tugging at my lips.
After we crossed a line that should—at least in theory—have been uncrossable, Matt’s become a man on a mission. He’s vetting Tempt like it’s a hostile takeover, obsessively curating my profile with the kind of focus he usually reserves for code and contracts. I let him, gladly.
Matt knows his way around computers far better than I do, and if there’s even a whisper of something off, he’ll find it. It’s reassuring, having someone looking out for me—and yet it’s also so incredibly foreign that I don’t know how to react.
Keys click, then he exhales.
“Right. Come take a look at this.”
I push myself up and circle the bed, leaning in beside him. My name—well, Lily’s Loves—glows back at me from the screen, framed by his careful wording. It looks professional, like it was built by someone who knows exactly what they’re offering—and what they’re worth.
My chest tightens, not with fear, but with something steadier. Something like anticipation. Like excitement for what comes next.
“You made me sound… powerful,” I say quietly.
Matt’s expression shifts instantly, all teasing gone. “Because you are.”
I swallow, then look back down at my sketchbook, grounding myself in the contrast of the charcoal against the page.
“I want to do both,” I confess after a moment. “Design and cam. I don’t want to choose.”
“Then don’t.”
There’s no hesitation in his voice, no flicker of doubt—like the idea of doing both is so obvious it’s never even occurred to him that it might be impossible.
“I mean it,” he adds, calm and certain. “You don’t owe anyone a single version of yourself. You’re allowed to be more than one thing.”
I trace a seam with my fingertip. “People won’t take me seriously.”
Matt exhales slowly, like he’s been expecting that fear.
“People,” he says carefully, “rarely take women seriously when they don’t fit neatly into a box that makes them comfortable.”
I glance at him. He’s not looking at the screen anymore. He’s looking at me.
“That’s not a ‘you’ problem,” he continues. “That’s a ‘them’ problem.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “You make it sound simple.”
“It isn’t,” he acknowledges, a faint frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But it is true.”
He shifts on the bed, setting the laptop aside, and for a moment the room feels smaller, more focused. Like everything important has narrowed down to this exact space between us.
“You’re not doing this because you don’t have other options,” he says. “You’re doing it because it gives you control, freedom, and because you’re good at it.”
My fingers tighten around my pencil. “What if one day I want to walk into a studio and all they see is—”
“A woman who built something from nothing?” he finishes, one eyebrow lifting. “Who understood branding, audience, demand? Who paid her own way and didn’t wait to be chosen?”
I blink, speechless, as something warm blooms in my chest, curling around my ribs in a way that feels an awful lot like hope.
He shrugs, almost casual. “If I were hiring, that’s what I’d see. And anyway, with the mask and the paywall, the chances of that are incredibly slim.”
“There’s a part of me,” I admit, staring at my hands, at the charcoal ground into the lines of my palms, “that feels braver behind a mask. Like, I get to choose what they see. What they don’t.”
Matt nods once. “That makes sense.”
No judgment, no awkwardness. Just acceptance, steady and sure.
“And the designs?” he adds, nodding toward my sketchbook. “They’re not a fantasy, they’re your future. One doesn’t have to cancel out the other.”
I let myself believe him for a moment. Just long enough for it to feel real.
“You don’t think it’s… wrong?” I ask.
He frowns. “Wrong how?”
“I don’t know,” I groan, frustrated. “Too much. Too complicated. Like I’m asking for trouble.”
“Lil’,” he says quietly, “any world that only lets you be one thing isn’t a world worth shrinking yourself for.”
My throat tightens at the conviction in his words, at how effortlessly they erase everything Jen has ever thrown at me.
It shouldn’t sting this much—seeing the stark difference shouldn’t make me flinch—but it does.
Because Matt is looking at me like I’m perfect exactly as I am, while only hours ago, Jen was slicing through me with her words, insisting I shrink to fit her narrow definition of beauty.
His gaze feels like sunlight breaking through a storm, and I can’t help but ache at the contrast. How one person can make me feel seen, cherished, untouchable, while the other reminds me how small the world thinks I should be.
“And if anyone gives you shit for it,” he adds, a flicker of something fierce in his eyes, “they answer to me.”
I laugh, soft and shaky. “You can’t fight everyone.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I can stand with you.”
The room goes quiet again, not heavy this time, just full.
I look down at my sketch, then back at him.
“Okay,” I say, heart thudding. “Then I’ll do both.”
His smile is immediate, proud, and certain.
“Good,” he says. “I’ll help however you want.”
And for the first time since the idea took root in my chest, the future doesn’t feel like a risk.
It feels like something I might actually be allowed to want.
Hours later, Matt’s room has been transformed into a makeshift stream setup.
I’ve swapped my jeans and T-shirt for a matching black lace set, a sheer robe, and a matching mask that hides just enough.
My laptop glows in front of me, my phone hooked up to it, the camera angled carefully, casting soft light over my skin and hands.
Eventually, I want to craft something more aesthetic—handmade matching sets and masks for every stream, a professional camera hooked up to my laptop, chat pulled up on a different screen so it’s easier to read. But for now… this will do. A shiver runs through me, part nerves, part anticipation.
“Lil’.”
Matt’s voice cuts through, soft and grounding. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, sleeves rolled up, tattoos on full display in that unfair way of his.
“Ready to break the internet?” he asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, desire dancing openly in his eyes.
I bite my lip, laughing despite the tension curling tight in my chest. “If by that you mean embarrass myself, then yes. Absolutely.”
He chuckles as he comes closer. “You could let me help you.”
I glance back at him, mask in place, pulse spiking. “Are you volunteering as my assistant or…?”
“Both,” he says easily. “I’m a very versatile assistant.”
“You’d have to wear a mask,” I warn, “and keep your shirt on.”
“I can do that,” he says, utterly unbothered, “if you can cope without seeing all of this.”
He flashes me his abs for half a second—deliberate and devastating—before crossing to his wardrobe.
When he comes back, he’s already pulling on a black balaclava.
Slipping it into place, he’s reduced to piercing green eyes, a tight black top, his new Doc Martens, and jeans worn low enough to make my mouth go dry.
The sight of him like this is lethal to my sanity.
He settles behind me on the bed, his legs bracketing mine, close enough that I feel his heat without a single point of contact. Before I can second-guess myself, I hit the button and go live.
Instantly, viewers start trickling in, then flooding.
The chat scrolls fast—demands, compliments, filth, and fascination colliding all at once.
My chest tightens, a heady mix of nerves and heat pooling low in my belly as I try to keep up.
JimsCuntDestroyer: You new here? I’d remember that body.
AdamsLadder: A duo? This is going to be hot.
CometoDaddy: Put that slut in her place.
MistressE: Oh, you’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?
Matt leans down beside me, his voice pitched low, meant only for me. “See? They’re excited.”
His mouth hovers near my ear, not touching, but close enough to send a shiver straight down my spine.
“You’re irresistible.”
The word hits hard, knocking the air from my lungs.
My fingers fidget in my lap, worrying the lace as heat curls tighter through me. “Only because you’re obsessed with me,” I tease, though my voice comes out softer, breathier than I intend.
“Maybe,” he murmurs, shifting just enough to bring more of him into frame.
“Or maybe,” he continues quietly, his eyes locking with mine through the camera lens, “because you’re exactly what they’ve been fantasising about.”
The camera catches his shadow behind me, the way his hands brush against my waist, just enough to send sparks through me. I shift, letting the robe fall open a fraction more, teasing the lens.
“The chat likes this,” he whispers. “They’re ready for more.”
Lurker69: Show us her tits.
AdamsLadder: I’m so fucking hard.
I glance at him through the mask, heat curling fast. “I don’t know… do you think they deserve a little treat?”