Chapter 20
The rest of the day flickers past in scattered moments—chalk lines on pattern paper, graphite smudges on my fingertips, and a half-empty coffee cup trembling in my grip. I keep telling myself the mysterious delivery doesn’t matter, but my brain is a dog with a bone.
If it wasn’t Matt, who sent it?
And if it was him, how does he know where I live?
Why play games with me now? Over a year later, months out from his wedding?
And why the fuck can’t I be the kind of woman who blocks a man and moves on with her life?
Instead, I’m here, dabbing on highlighter until my cheekbones glow sharp enough to blind, slicking my lips in sheer gloss that gleams like liquid, while these questions tear through me. My pulse flutters under my skin, quick as hummingbird wings.
By the time Lyon’s skyline flushes pink, and the sun slips beneath the rooftops, I’m dressed in a lavender mesh bodysuit so thin it’s practically translucent.
Satin traces every seam—cupping my breasts, sculpting my waist, hugging my hips.
My nipples press against the mesh, piercings visible, hardened into tight furls that catch the ring light’s glow.
Slipping on my matching mask feels like letting everything else float away, embracing the art of letting go, if only for a few hours.
Showtime.
As I go live, the chat erupts, emojis and messages scrolling like wildfire.
Hearts, flames, pleading words flood the screen.
Every ping, every notification hammers in sync with my pulse.
My chest tightens, my stomach flips, and somewhere between the thrill and the rush, I feel untouchable… and completely exposed.
JimsCuntDestroyer: Fuck yes, I’ve been waiting for you all day.
MistressE: That set is divine. Turn for us, sweetheart.
AdamsLadder:. Let’s see what that lace does when it stretches.
A smile curls over my lips, practiced and sultry. But there’s a genuine little thrill, at the way power settles in my chest, and heat pools low in my belly.
“Miss me?” I purr, letting my fingers drift from my throat down to my sternum, lingering over the valley between my breasts.
I press my palms together, squeezing my tits until the mesh strains tighter, the lavender fabric going almost sheer between my fingers.
“Because I’ve been thinking about you… all day. ”
I slide my fingers down my stomach, tracing my navel, then lower, toying with the delicate strap perched on my hip. The deeper my hand travels, the faster the tips and pleas flood the chat.
I stretch my arms overhead, letting my breasts push against the mesh. The fabric strains across my nipples, which harden in the cool air and under the weight of the countless eyes on me right now.
“Tell me what you’ve been dreaming about,” I coax, slipping my thumb under one strap and letting it slide down my shoulder, slowly, inch by inch, until it hangs loose. My skin glows under the ring light, flushed pink. I feel every beat of my heart pulsing between my legs.
BegForMe: Fix the lighting, baby. It’s too dark to see you.
BegForMe: Come closer. Show Daddy those tits.
BegForMe: Fuck these losers. Private chat. Now.
BegForMe: What are you waiting for?
My entire body goes rigid. For a second, my hands freeze mid-motion.
He doesn’t get to make those kinds of demands.
Not when I can still see the headlines, the photos that gutted me, and I’m still nursing the hangover he drove me to.
Not when I’m half-dressed, live on camera, with hundreds of eyes watching my every reaction.
He doesn’t get to come in here and claim me like this. Not anymore.
I force my lips into a coy smile, even as my pulse thunders so hard it makes my chest ache.
“Someone’s in a mood tonight,” I laugh, lowering my voice to a silken thread edged with steel. “Miss me that much, baby?”
My fingers hover over the keys, frozen for a heartbeat as indecision tears at me.
Every instinct screams both fight and submit, and the contradiction tightens my chest. I tell myself to breathe, to remember who I am, but the words burn on my tongue before I can shape them.
My pulse hammers in my ears, mingling with the muted chatter of the room, the faint whir of my computer fan, the glow of the ring light illuminating every curve he’s ever memorised.
CometoDaddy: Who pissed in his cereal?
MistressE: Watch your tone, Beg. You’re ruining the vibe.
JimsCuntDestroyer: Yeah, fuck off if you’re not gonna share.
BegForMe: Shut up.
BegForMe: This stream isn’t for you.
BegForMe: It’s mine.
BegForMe: She’s mine.
That does it.
A shiver races down my spine, heat clashing with something colder and more dangerous. Even through a screen, I can feel him spiralling. I know that tone, that jagged edge that used to make my pulse pound. And God help me, it still sets my blood on fire.
Because if he’s spiralling… it means he still cares.
And I hate that some secret, wicked part of me lights up at the thought.
Because this is our sickness, isn’t it? The push and pull. The wanting and the denial. The dance that started in the shadows and never really ended. And even as I keep telling myself I’m over him, my body remembers every reason I’m not.
But I don’t reward tantrums. Not anymore.
Not when I’ve clawed my way to this stage, these lights, this adoring crowd. He doesn’t get to tear it down just because he can’t stand watching me belong to anyone else. He lost any right to claim me as his a long time ago.
I lean closer to the camera, giving the viewers a perfect view of my glossy lips, and my half-fallen strap. My cleavage is right there for the taking and my tip jar spikes higher.
“Sorry, Beg,” I whisper, voice dripping saccharine sweetness. “Private sessions are closed tonight.”
The chat explodes:
MistressE: Oh shit.
AdamsLadder: Get fucking lost, Beg.
CometoDaddy: Damn, she just dropped the hammer.
FuckMePlease: Bet he’s punching the air right now.
BegForMe: I’ll triple your fee.
BegForMe: Stop playing games.
BegForMe: Please. I need this. I need you.
I blow him a slow kiss, pressing my gloss-slick mouth close to the camera. Then I tilt my head, letting my hair fall forward, giving the viewers a fleeting glimpse of cleavage and the delicate bow between my breasts.
“Maybe next time,” I purr, running my tongue over my bottom lip. “If you behave.”
Then I mute him.
And the tension snaps like a taut wire cut clean through
Applause and dirty praise flood the chat, usernames tipping high, pouring tokens in tribute to the girl who held her own.
But behind the mask, my chest rises and falls too fast, my breath ragged. My bodysuit is soaked through, the mesh sticking to my folds, the satin cutting deliciously into my hips as excitement races through me.
Because for the first time, Matt was the one to slip up, to show weakness and vulnerability in a way I’ve seen him do before. Seeing him this close to begging has me wanting to see just how far I can push him.