8. Duck Confits and Ego Trips
Duck Confits and Ego Trips
B y the time I close Sadie’s door for the fifth time tonight, my whole body feels heavy with exhaustion. It’s nearly two a.m., and I should get some sleep. Instead, I find myself grabbing my laptop and migrating to the bedroom.
The house is quiet, save for the muted hum of the occasional car passing by. I settle onto the bed and open the laptop, the dark screen waiting.
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But I tap the trackpad, heartbeat quickening.
The screen flickers to life and my fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitation curling in my gut. My inbox is full of unread emails, including one from Ian that I should answer.
I don’t.
Instead, I type TOP into the navigation bar.
The homepage loads instantly, a carousel of faces smiling seductively at the camera. I ignore them all and type her username, finding her immediately.
On a public live feed.
The thumbnail is small, but even in the still image, she looks like trouble. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, hair loose around her shoulders, lips slightly parted like she’s just uttered something sinful.
I shouldn’t click.
I should not click.
But I do.
The screen buffers, the little loading icon spinning for a few seconds before the image clears.
Charlotte’s face comes into focus—dimly lit and framed by the cascade of her scarlet hair. She looks tired, but not in a bad way. Cozy, wrapped in a loose sweater that’s slipping off one shoulder.
Her eyes are warm as they land on the chat, her lips curving just a little more than usual.
“Cole,” she says almost fondly, “You’re back.”
“Yes. How—how are you?” I say. Should I try to mask my voice? I guess the laptop microphone doesn’t modify it enough for her not to recognize it, so I probably should?—
“Microphones and cameras are not allowed during lives, only one-on-ones. You’ll have to write for me, baby.”
Oh. I glance at the chat box, fingers hesitating for a second before typing.
Chief.728
I couldn’t sleep. I figured I’d check to see if you were still up.
She grins, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was about to call it a night, actually. There’s hardly anyone at this hour.”
That makes sense. The chat box is empty, save for my message. No flood of donations, no names popping in and out.
It’s just us.
Chief.728
Don’t let me keep you up. It was nice to see you.
I throw my head back. “Jeez, why not write her a love letter?”
But she reads the message, and the way she blushes makes it impossible to regret sending it. “Leaving already? Did you change your mind about wanting to hang out?”
Chief.728
Why would I, when you look like that?
She shifts to get more comfortable, her legs kicking lazily behind her. “Have you ever been in a live feed on TOP?”
Chief.728
Not really. Give me the tour?
“You got it.” She points one long, manicured finger at the camera. “There should be a few buttons on your screen. Each of those corresponds to a donation.”
I glance at the panel and locate the buttons lined up in a neat row beneath the feed, each one labeled with an action and a price tag. Twenty dollars to lift her top. Fifty to remove her bra. A hundred for her to touch herself.
My stomach feels weird—tight, like I swallowed something too big to go down.
It’s not that I didn’t know what TOP was. But seeing it like this? With her ?
It feels too fucking wrong.
She’s watching the camera, probably waiting for a response, so I force my fingers to move.
Chief.728
What about the last button? “Custom request”?
A smirk tugs at her lips. “Straight for the gold, huh? That costs two hundred dollars. I get loads of those during lives, so I pick the ones I’m comfortable with, and anyone who wants to see it happen will donate too.”
I swallow.
I don’t know why I ask the next question. Maybe I shouldn’t.
Chief.728
What’s a popular one?
“Um...” She taps her lip, considering. “Butt plugs are a big hit. Lots of fake blowjobs, foot shots. Some people want to watch me try on clothes, others want me to put makeup on.”
I rest my fingers on the keyboard, my pulse thick and slow.
I should definitely say something, but my mind is stuck, tangled up in the image of her on all fours with a butt plug in her beautiful hole. Of blowjobs, and messy sex, and loud orgasms.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to breathe through the arousal.
“Did you fall asleep on me, Cole?”
Chief.728
No, sorry. What’s a fake blowjob?
“Ah, yes,” she says, shifting slightly to the side before reappearing fully in the frame. “The demonstration is complimentary.”
She picks up a long purple dildo and kneels down. Locking eyes with the camera, she grins then extends her tongue to glide it across the smooth surface, all the way up to the tip. Taking just the end into her mouth, she moves her lips, and the sucking sound sends a wave of shivers down my spine.
“Oh, fuck.” I press a fist against my mouth. I was already turned on from just thinking about her, which intensified upon seeing her, but now the surge of desire is so intense that my balls tighten.
This has no business being so fucking hot, but holy shit, watching her service a silicone dick through a screen feels as good as sex.
Head rising, she winks. “What do you think?”
That there is no way in hell I can justify making her do this, even though the whole thing would be over in two minutes, judging by the stiffness between my legs. I can’t .
Chief.728
I think I’ll pass.
“Shit, you really can’t convey tone via chat,” I mutter when her smile dampens.
“You didn’t like it?”
I rush to type.
Chief.728
I got so hard so fast, my dick might turn into a missile and shoot into space.
Just not tonight.
Charlotte laughs, the sound loud and genuine, and quickly covers her mouth with her fingers. Her eyes dart toward the door, then back to me. “I can’t make too much noise. Don’t be funny.”
I lean back against the headboard, one corner of my lips pulling up. “All right,” I say, even though she can’t hear me.
I need to wipe this idiot smile off my face. The only problem is that I enjoy watching her laugh more than I enjoy watching her orgasm. And I do love watching that.
She’s just...so different on TOP. Less restrained, polished. More like herself.
I’m obsessed with it.
“So...” She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow, her cheek resting on her palm. Loose strands of hair tumble across her face, and she brushes them away absentmindedly. “What do you want to do tonight?”
I glance at the screen, my fingers hesitating for just a second before I move to the fourth box.
Custom request.
A lump forms in my throat as I type, then press enter.
Her eyes narrow slightly, then she drags her cursor across the screen. “Hmm. A custom request, huh? Let’s see.”
There’s a click as she selects it, then she blinks.
“‘Let’s keep talking’?” she reads aloud, her voice lilting with curiosity.
Shit . Did I make it weird?
I can request a variety of explicit things and she wouldn’t judge me, but I just want to hear her voice. No fake-blowjobs or foot pics—that’s not my thing anyway. But is this even allowed ?
She blinks, watching the camera, watching me .
“You don’t have to pay me to talk to you, Cole.”
Chief.728
Well, you’re still on the clock, aren’t you?
“Yeah.” She presses her lips together for just a second before she leans toward her laptop. “Then...click on the first button. That’s too much money for just talking.”
Chief.728
You’re not a great haggler.
She chuckles, the sound hushed and warm, and shifts again, curling into her pillow. The glow of the screen makes her look even cozier, and it’s easy to fool myself into thinking this isn’t just a job for her, but a late-night conversation between two people who should be asleep but aren’t.
“I’m not taking this much money to just talk to you while I’m half asleep,” she murmurs.
I tap on the third button, 100 dollars’ worth, then type.
Chief.728
Meet me halfway?
She considers that for a moment, biting her lip, then nods. Once she accepts my donation, her eyes flicker back to the screen.
“Okay, Cole.” She tucks her arm beneath her cheek. “Let’s talk.”
The apartment is empty, the hum of the fridge the only sound as I set my bag down and pull out the ingredients I brought: duck, oranges, fennel, shallots, fresh thyme, and a head of garlic.
I’m making duck confit, which means hours of prep before it even touches the oven. The legs need to be trimmed, salted, and cured with aromatics before they cook in their own fat. While that’s happening, I’ll prep an orange-fennel sauce and a crisp salad to cut through the richness.
I’m excited to be here early, and while I tell myself it’s just because I like having enough time to cook, to do things right, that’s not the whole truth.
I’m looking forward to seeing her.
Charlotte.
The way the air shifts around her, like she drags in electricity without even trying.
It’s ridiculous, really. We spent several hours chatting last night.
About her favorite song, “Dreams” by Midnight Reckless, and about the best trip she ever went on—a getaway to a small Italian island where she saw the most beautiful sunsets of her life.
She asked about my demonic cat, and about my daughter.
She shouldn’t be this interesting—she’s too young for that. And it shouldn’t feel so easy to talk to her, but it does. It’s not like talking to a friend, but neither is it like getting to know a stranger. It’s a feeling I can’t compare to anything I’ve ever experienced before.
I begin seasoning the duck legs with crushed garlic, fresh thyme, and a touch of orange zest, and when I hear the door opening, my heartbeat kicks into overdrive. There’s a low murmur, a breathy laugh. It’s Charlotte, definitely, but not just her. There’s a man’s voice too.
I freeze, listening. The footsteps are unhurried as they move through the house, and I catch a glimpse of them when they reach the arch that leads into the corridor.