9. Ivan

9

IVAN

B y the time I leave Cafe L’Rose, I feel like I’m floating on cloud nine.

It all came together so much more easily than I expected. Her friend’s willingness to bail on lunch to give Charlotte a chance to get to know me went a long way. It makes me want to send Jaz flowers just for the assist, but that’s a bad idea. That might freak her out, and then I’d be back to square one.

I spent the weekend putting together the fake persona that I gave Charlotte. Vasili isn’t my last name, but if she Googles me, she’ll find a host of false records and planted information about me that will back up the story I gave her. A story about a purposefully vague career, so that I can keep track of what I’m telling her without slipping up.

Deep down, I know that this is all a very bad idea. That I’m mired in enough lies between my family and the feds. I don’t need another story to keep up with, another host of falsehoods and secrets to keep straight.

I should forget about Charlotte Williams, and let her go on with her life, while I go on with mine.

But I can’t. And I know she wouldn’t want me as I am. Not until she’s had a chance to get to know me better, anyway. If I tell her right off the bat that I’m Ivan Kariyev, that my family is one of the most dangerous criminal families in Chicago, that I have so much blood coating my hands that I could strip the skin away and still not be rid of it all, that I found her after that night at Masquerade because I hacked into every aspect of her life—she’d do more than just refuse to go out on a date with me.

She’d probably—and rightfully—call the cops. And then I’d have a whole other mess to deal with, even if nothing would ultimately come of it.

I don’t need any more complications in my life. Charlotte is a lot more than a complication—my desire for her, my growing obsession with her, could rip a hole in the fabric of my entire life. But now that I’ve seen her, met her, tasted her—I can’t get enough.

I can’t shake her. The only thing that I can hope is that this is a passing obsession, and that once I’ve had her, I will have had enough of her. That this will burn itself out, and I can go back to my life as it was before.

That has to be how this turns out in the end. Because I can’t lie to her for a lifetime. And if I’m being honest with myself, there is no other endgame beyond a temporary connection between the two of us. She’s not the kind of girl to get involved with a criminal. And I can’t keep her from knowing who I am forever.

I can for a while, though. Until I can get her out of my head.

—

The high I’m on only lasts until I get a call from Ani, the second of my brothers, telling me that there’s a family dinner tonight. “Don’t bother trying to get out of it tonight,” he tells me curtly. “ Otets will be furious if you’re not there. He specifically said you were to be there, too. Don’t make this worse for the rest of us.”

There’s a warning there, in his tone. A warning not to cause trouble, or he and my other brothers will find a way to make me regret it.

The last time I crossed them, I was left holding a gun to a woman’s head while my brothers questioned her husband about a mistake he’d made with our father’s bookkeeping. Pulling that trigger would have been a line they knew I’d refuse to step over. And it would have given them the excuse they need to tell my father that I need to be removed, myself.

That his bastard son is better off dead than a part of the Kariyev family. That I can’t be trusted, even if I am my father’s blood.

I’m expected to dress respectably for dinner. Suit trousers, a button-down, although I can roll up the sleeves and skip a tie and jacket. While I dress, I glance over at my phone repeatedly, sitting on the sink next to me.

When I put my number in Charlotte’s phone, I also installed a tracker. It had to be done quickly, and it had to be embedded in her phone in a way that she wouldn’t notice. A new app would be something she’d pick up on immediately. Something she’d look into, since she’s also knowledgeable when it comes to tech. Instead, I got the information I needed from her phone, and used it to embed the tracker into an app already on it.

Right now, I’ve kept it simple. Her location, who’s texting her, who’s calling her. Not the actual texts themselves or the transcripts of calls. I don’t want to pry that deeply, yet. But I do want to know where she is, and what she’s doing—and with who.

For instance, if she goes back to Masquerade, I want to know. There’s no way I wouldn’t drop everything to go straight there, and make sure that she doesn’t end up with a different man there. The thought of her in one of those private rooms, with some other man’s face between her legs, makes my hands tighten around the edge of the sink counter hard enough for the granite edges to dig into my palms. The thought of her playing in public there, allowing others to see her as she’s pleasured, as she comes, is enough to make me squeeze the counter so hard that I’d break it if that were possible.

No other man is going to get to touch her. Her pleasure, her lessons, all of the things that are about to be opened up to her on account of her ex’s stupidity, are mine . No other man is going to make her come until I’ve had my fill of the sweet sounds she makes, until every other orgasm she has for the rest of her life is colored by the memory of all the times that it was me touching her.

The fact that I’d cross my family, risk angering my violent brothers and my father in order to intercept Charlotte if need be, should be enough to make me think twice about all of this. It should be enough to make me reconsider what I’m doing here.

But I’m not. I can’t.

I’ve done drugs a handful of times in my life. I’ve never understood how people get addicted to them. How they’ll do the things I’ve seen, make the deals I’ve witnessed, commit the atrocities that I know about, in order to get another high. But now that I’ve met Charlotte, now that I’ve had a hit of her—I get it.

I’m addicted. And all of my self-preservation has gone out the window in service of getting my next high. In service of making sure no one else gets a taste of what I want.

I drive myself over to my father’s house. I don’t want any delays between me and leaving, once I get the chance. And any chance I have to go out for a drive is one I want to take, anyway.

My father’s mansion, on the outer edges of the city, is a sight. Dima Kariyev made a name for himself as a young man in Chicago, bringing over our family’s name and influence from Moscow and establishing the family Bratva here. He’s not the only Russian crime family in Chicago, but he’s risen to be one of the most influential, and one of the most feared.

But fear and respect are two different things. My father and my brothers are known to be vicious. Men who have very little in the way of codes that they abide by. And those rules, those personal codes, are what gain respect from other men in this world. The knowledge that even in violence, there can be honor.

My father is a violent man, but one without much honor. My existence is proof enough of that. Men in this world are often unfaithful to their wives, but demanding that one of their bastard children be raised with the family, by their wife, is unheard of.

His wife hates me. I don’t blame her for it.

I park my Mustang behind the row of other cars, all of them new and gleaming. Ani’s Lamborghini, Lev’s Rolls Royce, Niki’s Maserati. They have an appreciation for money, but not for style or heritage. My Mustang is a classic.

More than that, it’s a symbol of how little I want to do with my family. An all-American car, something with no ties to our lineage. Something that represents the world I’d rather be a part of, instead of the one I’m in.

Unsurprisingly, none of them have ever picked up on that. It’s a silent rebellion, which, to my mind, makes it that much better.

I’m a few minutes late, the best I could get away with under the circumstances. I walk through the large foyer, my shoes clicking against the marble floor, and continue all the way to the formal dining room. My father insists on holding family dinners here, even though the six of us barely take up a third of the long table.

Dima, my father, looks up as I enter, his face already creased with displeasure. His wife, Katya, is to his right, my brother, Lev sitting to his left. Ani and Niki are both sitting next to Lev, which means I’ll be forced to sit next to Katya, or further down the table, snubbing her. Treating her as less than my mother—which, of course, she isn’t. Not really.

This is intentional. I’m fully aware of it. I’m also not about to allow any of them to see how they get under my skin.

I walk around the table, nodding respectfully to my father before taking the seat next to Katya. She turns to me, her face covered thickly with makeup, and I lean in, giving her an air kiss on each cheek, as she prefers. I can smell the powdery, thick rose scent of her perfume and makeup, and it turns my stomach.

It reminds me of my childhood in this house, and none of that is pleasant.

“You’re late,” Dima growls. “We were waiting on you. You’ve kept not only your father and brothers waiting, but also your mother. What do you have to say about that?”

That my mother isn’t here. I wisely keep that thought to myself. “I apologize,” I say flatly, forcing it out. “There was traffic.”

“That can be planned for. Early is better than late. Better even than on time. Isn’t that right, Lev?” Dima turns to look at his oldest son, who nods firmly. I’m sure he was more than early to dinner. Eager to please my father, so he can keep his place at his side.

That’s the thing about having a family so vicious. Lev’s birthright is his inheritance—the influence, connections, and most of the wealth of the Kariyev family when our father passes. But my family only observes the rules when they suit. If Lev angered our father enough, if he gave any hint that he didn’t intend to continue on as Dima began, he could be removed easily enough. He could meet with an accident. And then it would be Ani’s turn to prove that he’s worthy of my father’s name and empire.

I often wonder if Niki is relieved that it would take a lot for that particular inheritance to work its way down to him. I know I am. I also know Niki would try to have me killed the moment that happened, just to make sure that I didn’t have the same idea.

Luckily for my brothers, I don’t want any part of this. I’m not interested in my family’s politics. And I have every intention of one day having enough money of my own that I won’t need any of that from them, either.

Enough that I’ll never need anything, from anyone.

The table is mostly quiet after that, until the first course is served—a mixed greens salad with a creamy dressing and a squash soup swirled with heavy cream. The food is the only tolerable part of these family dinners—my father employs an excellent cook. But it’s still not worth what I have to sit through, not when I could get equally good food on my own without the stomachache that will inevitably follow.

We’re halfway through the soup when Dima speaks again.

“I heard you questioned one of the men suspected of leaking the railyard location,” he says, looking directly at me. “Lev also says you killed him before he could give much information.”

Next to me, Katya flinches. “Dima, please,” she says calmly, but her mouth tightens at the edges. “Can’t we talk about something more pleasant?”

He ignores her. “Well?” he barks, setting down his spoon. One of the staff immediately springs into the room, clearing all of the plates, regardless of whether we’re still eating or not. When Dima is finished with a course, we’re all finished.

“I killed him when I was sure he had nothing left to tell us,” I return flatly. “As I explained to Lev, the promise of a clean death is a bargaining tool. If the other half of that bargain thinks that is a lie, they’ll no longer be forthcoming, and nothing they say can be trusted.”

Dima laughs at that, a deep, hearty sound, as the next course is set out for us. Steak—tender-looking filet—with sides of roasted potatoes and spiced corn. He cuts into his steak first, and I can see that it’s cooked black and blue, barely a step past raw. Very little turns my stomach, but in the present moment, something about watching my father slice through that still-soft meat makes the back of my throat burn with bile.

My appetite has fled, which is a shame. I like steak.

“You treat torture like an art,” he says, chuckling. “My violence mixed with your mother’s creative spirit, I think.” He looks genuinely amused by the thought. “It’s a means to an end, son. And I expect you to get that end. This is the second shipment of women we’ve lost. That’s money that has to be repaid to buyers, unless we find a suitable substitute for them. Even then, they often want at least partial compensation for their wait. Those connections are fragile, Ivan. Those men can go elsewhere for their flesh. I want them to come to me . And with every shipment we lose, frays that trust. It damages my other business, too. Do you understand?”

He jabs the knife towards me, cutting the air as he says it. I don’t flinch, but I can feel that squirming sensation in my stomach again. I’m not insensible to the pain that would be inflicted on me if he ever found out what I’m doing. The fact that I’m able to hide my fear of it doesn’t mean I’m not afraid.

I glance towards Katya, wondering if I’ll be able to read anything on her face. Surely, she, a woman, must feel something sitting here and listening to her husband discuss the sale of other women. Unwilling women, being sent off to their buyers to be used and abused as those men see fit.

I also always wonder what she thinks when Dima brings up my birth mother. She can’t have ever expected love or fidelity from him, but I know she resents being forced to raise me. But her face is smooth, impassive as she cuts into her well-cooked steak. If she feels anything at all about all of this, she’s hiding it.

Which is likely the wisest choice she could make.

“I understand the difficulties that the leaks are causing. And I’ll do all I can to uncover the source.” It’s a flat-out lie, of course. But every word I say is like tiptoeing around landmines. My father is greedy and cruel, but he’s not stupid. He’s smarter than I think my brothers give him credit for, especially Lev. It’s difficult to keep the truth from him, and it will continue to be difficult.

“Do better.” His voice is sharp, cutting, and it takes everything in me to nod, to give him deference, and keep my composure. To not tell my father what I really think of him.

It would be so much easier to turn a blind eye, as I have all my life to so much else in my family. I have no desire to be involved with any of their enterprises, not just what involves human flesh. But the rest, I can ignore.

Some things, though, are too evil for me to not do something about, if I can. And I’m uniquely placed to help these women, with talents that allow me to do more than most others could.

I just have to stay alive long enough to cripple this part of my father’s empire entirely. Then, I’ll stay long enough to let any suspicion pass me by—and then I’ll take my money and my car and whatever else I want of my life, and go far away.

I’ll start over. Maybe even as Ivan Vasili, instead of who I am now.

That makes me think of Charlotte. Of the impossibility of any real future with her. It goes beyond the fact that she’s not the kind of woman who would want a criminal. I can’t drag her into this world. I can’t subject her to the kind of life I’ll always live—one where my family will always be a threat, even if they’re only in the background. A life without her friends, without a family of her own, with only me for support.

I’m not the kind of man who can give a woman like her what she needs. The fact that I seem to need her like a drug doesn’t change that.

All it means is that I need to get my fill of her, and then get clean. Teach her all the things that she’s never been shown, make sure I’ve given her all those pleasures that she’s never experienced for the first time, and then get her out of my system. We can give each other what we both want, and then I’ll take off, leaving only good memories for us both.

After all, I tell myself as I finish dinner and say my goodnights impatiently, it’s not as if she’s going to get into a serious relationship with the next man she dates after a bad breakup. I’m already firmly in the rebound position.

It doesn’t matter if there are other men after you. As long as you’re the one she’ll think of every time, long after you’re gone.

That’s what I tell myself to ease the sting of knowing that I won’t be the last man to touch her, only the next. But there’s no world in which I get to keep her. This temporary obsession is going to have to be enough.

When I get back home, I only pause to change into a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt before heading down to the basement. I know my father has another shipment coming in, but I don’t have all of the details, which means I need to be scanning the warehouses, docks, and railyards as often as possible to make sure that I don’t miss any movements. The feds are expecting this information from me, and I’m in a precarious fucking position. Now that I’ve started feeding them some information, they expect a steady drip. If I start to slow down too much, or worse, stop, they’ll turn on me as fast as my family would if they knew what I was doing.

I’m caught between two sides, and neither of them give a fuck about me.

I set my phone down next to the keyboard, keeping an eye out for Charlotte’s movements. So far, all I’ve gotten is that she went grocery shopping at Whole Foods after work, and then went home. She’s stayed there all night, texting her friends, and no one else. She hasn’t downloaded any dating apps onto her phone.

That last is a relief. Both because it means she was interested in me today, and not just the prospect of going out with anyone—and also because it means I won’t have to be distracted right now with figuring out how to place roadblocks in the way of any other dates.

This is already more of a distraction than I should be allowing myself. I know it from the way my thoughts keep drifting to her as I sift through the screens, viewing the various locations my father uses, as I scroll through saved footage of the day, looking for anything that I can pass on as information. I know it from the way I keep looking over at my phone, almost compulsively.

When I do get another ping for her, it’s not from my phone. It’s from one of my computers, one that I set up to monitor her online activity from home. I turn immediately towards the screen, logging on and looking to see what she’s doing.

I feel an instant jolt of arousal. She’s looking at porn sites. OnlyFans. And my lips curve up in a smile as I see her searches. Masked men. Clothed man, naked woman. Masked sex.

She’s still thinking about me. She’s in her apartment, alone, probably in whatever she wears to bed, looking up ways to get off based on thoughts of what we did together at Masquerade. My cock swells, thickening along my leg and tenting my sweatpants as I watch her pulling up videos, lingering on some of them long enough that I know she’s watching. Maybe touching herself. Using her fingers, or a vibrator. She’s wet by now, looking at all of this—just the thought brings back the memory of the sweet scent of her arousal, the way she tasted on my tongue. I feel the insistent throb of my own arousal, and I reach down, adjusting my now fully-hard cock. I squeeze it for a moment, pushing off the urge to slide it out and stroke myself until I come. I need to, badly—and I will. But I want to enjoy the feeling of need for a little while longer. I want to let myself be hard, aching, thinking of what Charlotte is doing by herself in her apartment. The feeling of being this aroused is almost as good as the orgasm that I’ll have eventually—and that release will be made all the better by waiting for it.

The videos disappear, and I feel a swoop of disappointment. Did she finish already? I was hoping she’d draw it out, that I’d get to see more of what she wants. What sort of fantasies that she’s exploring, now that she feels safe to do so.

I’m just about to give up and get myself off so that I can go back to focusing on work, when the monitor pings again. My attention instantly snaps to it, and when I look, I see that she’s pulled up a website and started creating a profile.

It’s a website I’m very familiar with. One that means she has at least a passing knowledge of the darker parts of the web, parts that she wouldn’t be able to access without a VPN, and a bit of nerve.

I’m impressed—and more aroused than I ever thought I could be.

The site that she’s logged onto is a chat site. One where users go to share all kinds of fantasies back and forth. There are forums to post pictures and share stories. And a messenger, for sharing those fantasies one on one. It’s the online version of a place like Masquerade, a place with no real names and no faces allowed—except those are some of the only rules. Here, Charlotte could talk about almost anything she wanted, almost anything she’d be ashamed to admit, and she could find someone willing to listen. Someone to urge those fantasies on, to encourage her to lean into them. To seek pleasure from them. Someone who would get their own pleasure from listening to her describe all of the forbidden things she wants.

Jealousy, hot and thick, burns in my veins at the thought of anyone else reading those fantasies. Of another man stroking himself on the other side of a screen to the things that she wants, another man telling her the things he wants to do to her. Getting her off with those descriptions.

And in the wake of that jealousy, another thought springs to mind.

I have two identities with her. But there’s a third one that’s possible. Not just the masked man at Masquerade, which I might never be for her again, or the man who is taking her out on a date this weekend, the ‘acceptable’ version of myself.

This is an opportunity to give her a taste of who I really am. A way to be with her as myself, without her ever knowing that all three of these men are the same.

Quickly, I pull up the site on another of my monitors, logging on. I look for her username, and open up the messenger, typing out a quick message.

Venom69xxx: I haven’t seen you here before.

For a moment, I wonder if she’s even going to respond. A new user, especially a woman, is going to be flooded with messages. The thought that she might have answered someone else’s request first makes my blood burn all over again, but I take a breath, forcing myself to stay calm. To ignore all my baser instincts before they ruin this for me.

And then I see the message that pops up on the screen.

CuriousDove24: That’s because this is my first time. ;)

The breath leaves my lungs in a rush, a hot jolt of arousal scrambling all of my senses for a moment. It’s not just the flirtatious comment about it being her first time, which is enough all on its own to make me feel like I can’t think straight, but her username . I look at it again, thinking of that night at Masquerade, the taste of her on my lips, how badly I wanted her to touch me afterward.

That night must have meant a lot to her. It must have been more of a turning point than even I realized. My heart slams against my ribs as I try to focus, typing out a message before she thinks I’ve lost interest and answers someone else.

Venom69xxx: What are you hoping to find here, dove?

Calling her that feels like a risk. Like I’m tempting fate and taking a chance that she’ll guess I’m the same man, but that’s such a long shot, from her perspective. Most men that she would meet there wouldn’t be able to track her down from the anonymity of the club to a dark web chat site. I’ve only been able to because of the lengths I’ve gone to, hacking into her personal information. And it’s part of her username, after all.

The risk feels like a rush, too. The good kind of rush, not the anxiety that’s so often felt like it’s choking me since I started informing on my father for the FBI. That kind of risk feels like teetering on the edge of a dark hole, knowing there’s death or worse at the bottom.

This kind is the kind that makes a man feel alive again.

CuriousDove24: I don’t really know. I just know that I want to figure out what it is that I like. I’ve never had the chance before. And I keep having these thoughts…

There’s that jolt of arousal again, but I ignore it. I’ll get off at some point tonight, thinking about her, but right now, I’m more invested in this conversation. I want to know what she’s thinking about. What kind of fantasies she’s having. I want to know what my curious little dove is seeking.

I want to know, so that I can give it all to her.

Venom69xxx: What thoughts are those?

CuriousDove24: I don’t know if I should say…

Venom69xxx: Isn’t that why you’re here?

The chat goes quiet again for a moment, and I feel a jolt of apprehension, thinking that she might have changed her mind. That I might have lost my shot to find out what it is that my little dove is thinking about. But I can see on the other monitor that she hasn’t logged off.

CuriousDove24: I hooked up with a man whose name I didn’t know.

I lick my suddenly dry lips. She’s talking about me– to me, of course, but she doesn’t know that. Sharing our night together like it was some kind of forbidden fantasy. And it was , to her. Desire ripples through me, licking through my blood like tendrils of flame, and I want her so badly that it hurts. I want her here, now, with me. Not faceless, on the other side of a computer screen.

But she would never tell me these things in real life. Not as Ivan Vasili, the man she met today at the cafe, and definitely not as myself, Ivan Kariyev, the fourth son of a dangerous criminal.

Venom69xxx: And that was out of the ordinary for you, I’m guessing?

Curious Dove 24: Very much so. I’ve always done the three-date thing before even a kiss. And I just got out of a relationship.

Venom69xxx: No better time to explore, I think.

CuriousDove24: That’s what my best friend thought. And now—I think that’s what I’m thinking, too. I want to explore more.

Venom69xxx: What kind of things would you like to explore, dove?

CuriousDove24: That man I hooked up with—he wore a mask. I think—I think that turned me on. Not being able to see all of his face. I think I want to do that again. It felt—dangerous. Wrong. Even though he was really very polite about all of it.

Venom69xxx: And you’d like a masked man who was less polite? ;)

I wait for her response with my breath caught in my throat. I want to know what she’s thinking right now. I want to know if she’s picturing a man with rougher hands and less care for her well-being. I do care about her well-being, of course—but I could pretend not to. I could be the rough man that she wants. I could make her fantasies come to life, just for a little while.

I reach down, adjusting myself again. I can’t remember the last time I was this hard for anyone other than her. My cock feels like an iron bar, and I’m desperate for relief. But not yet.

CuriousDove24: I guess you could say I’m—curious. ;)

Venom69xxx: About what, exactly, dove?

CuriousDove24: I don’t know if I’m ready to say all of it, yet. But I think—the man with the half-mask... I keep imagining his whole face covered. That the only way I can tell how much I’m pleasing him is by the sounds he makes. By his body language. I picture him waiting for me in my apartment. Sitting on the edge of my bed when I walk in. Telling me what to do from behind the mask ? —

The chat stops. I close my eyes briefly, unable to ignore my own body’s needs any longer. I slide the waist of my sweatpants down just enough to slip my cock free, my breath a tight hiss from between my teeth as I feel the relief of my hand wrapping around it. It’s not going to be enough to do more than just take the edge off, but I’ll take whatever I can get right now. I can’t remember the last time I needed to come this badly.

I allow myself two long, slow strokes, sliding my hand down to the base and up again to the tip, using the pre-cum flooding from my tip as lubricant. And then I force myself to let go, reaching out to type out a response as my cock throbs in the neon glow from my monitor.

Venom69xxx: What would you like him to tell you to do?

Venom69xxx: He’s been thinking about you all day, after all. Distracted and so fucking hard. That’s why he had to sneak in and wait for you. Do you want him to tell you to get on your knees for him? Are you going to give him that pretty mouth, since you made him wait all day?

Her response takes a moment, and I start to worry again that I’ve scared her off. That even this relatively tame chatting is too much for her at this early point. But then I see the little dots at the bottom of the chat, and my pulse leaps as I see her username pop up again.

CuriousDove24: Maybe he tells me to strip for him first. While he’s sitting on the bed, fully clothed and masked. He makes me take everything off, so he can see what he’s waiting for. And then ? —

Fuck. My head is spinning. It feels like every drop of blood in my body has pooled in my cock—nothing else left to keep me functioning. My entire world feels hinged on knowing what she’s about to type in response.

CuriousDove24: He tells me to get on my knees. To—to undo his jeans and take him out. He’s still fully clothed. I can’t see any skin other than where he’s tugged his shirt up out of the way, and his ? —

CuriousDove24: That’s as far as I got.

I’m not entirely sure I can type a response. I don’t know if I can manage words in any format right now. This wouldn’t be nearly as erotic as it is if I didn’t know exactly who was on the other side of that screen, but I do . I’ve seen her in the flesh, sweet and innocent and shy, and I can picture her biting her lip right now, picture her hand moving between her legs, her fingers slipped inside of her panties as she nervously gets herself off.

And I would bet money that she just came, and that’s why she’s suddenly backed off.

Venom69xxx: Were you touching yourself while you told me all of that, dove? Did you just come thinking about the man sitting on your bed, telling you to strip and suck his cock?

I suck in a breath as I wait for her response. If she really did finish, and she’s regretting any of this, right now is when she’ll run. She’ll log off without another word, and I might never hear from her again—at least not like this.

But if she’s still curious, she’ll respond.

CuriousDove24: How would I type if I were doing that? ;)

I thought all the blood in my body was already in my cock, but I feel another surge of arousal all the same, making me feel briefly dizzy. Charlotte is hot as hell when she’s talking dirty, but it’s somehow even better when she’s flirting. When she’s teasing me like she is now, playing coy. The need to see her in person right now, to touch her, feels like what the worst craving for a drug must be. I want to see her biting her pretty, full lip. I want to grab her chin in my fingers and tell her what the punishment is for being a little tease. I want to see her cheeks flush when I say it.

I’m not in love with this woman. That’s not an emotion I’m capable of—not an emotion I can allow myself to feel, not when I live my life the way I do. But I’m sure as hell in something else, neck deep and drowning. Need. Lust. Obsession.

Venom69xxx: You tell me, dove.

CuriousDove24: Are you going to punish me if I lie?

Oh, my fucking god. I tilt my head back, breathing deeply as I wrap my hand around myself again, unable to deny myself a moment of relief after that.

Venom69xxx: Would you like it if I did?

CuriousDove24: I don’t know. I think I might.

Venom69xxx: So tell me the truth, dove, or I’ll have to think of a way to punish you, the next time we talk.

CuriousDove24: You think about that, Venom.

Just like that, she’s gone. I look over at the monitor tracking her activity, and I can see that she’s logged off, leaving me with only that last teasing, parting shot.

If I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that it was her, that it’s Charlotte, I wouldn’t have believed it. The woman I met at Masquerade wasn’t brave enough to tease like that. But she seems to be getting more daring. Behind the anonymity of a computer screen, she’s spreading her wings, just like the nickname I gave her.

I can’t wait to find out what happens next.