Twelve

Three minutes. I've got three minutes.

I shove my phone into my pocket and watch the numbers above the button panel illuminate. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

When the elevator stops, I practically fling myself through the doors before they're completely open. By the time I get into my condo, I only have a minute to spare.

I tried to leave the office earlier, but one of the first-year associates caught me at the elevator and had questions about my edits to one of his drafts. Took forever. I considered cutting out in the middle of the conversation, but I knew it would get back to Frank and he would murder me for passing on an opportunity to prove my mettle to someone junior. He says it's all about branding; the younger associates need to know I'm top dog.

So I talked to this kid about legal precedents for forty minutes. Thirty-minutes in, he literally started crying because he couldn't keep up with my explanation. I wanted to…I don't know…maybe hug the kid because things like oxford commas and precedents don't matter in the scheme of life. But again, Frank would have murdered me. So I stared at him with my mouth pressed in a line and waited for him to stop sniffling. It was cold. Psychotic, frankly.

Par for the course for me.

My father was a managing partner at Cavendish Waits (which was Cavendish, Dawson Waits at the time) and a titan among men. Working at the firm was the core of his existence, if not his reason for living. Before he passed, I always waited up for him to come home. He followed the same routine every night: unlocked the door, shrugged off his jacket, and made a beeline for his home office—all without removing the phone from his ear. Sometimes, he'd be yelling at someone on the other end and wouldn't even stop to say hello. He would just wave, gesturing at his phone.

Back in the day, I thought he looked cool as shit. Now that I do something similar most nights, I'm starting to wonder how he handled it. Sometimes, I spend hours lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, remembering how I yelled at a colleague. The thought makes my stomach tighten.

I'd like to get to know my colleagues, I think. The first-year associate today, the crying one, had a picture of a golden retriever as his phone background. I like golden retrievers. They're funny and seem like good running buddies. I wonder if they run together.

Frank would murder me for asking.

Tonight, I make a beeline for my desk the same way my father used to, but not for work. An hour ago, the website Valeria uses to cam sent a notification about an impromptu stream scheduled for tonight. It's a Friday, so she's off her Thursday/Sunday routine, but I'm not complaining.

And yeah, I know she told me to back off yesterday, but I have no plans to obey. I'm shamelessly persistent. If it takes a little scheming to get her, I'm down to scheme. It's either that, or I'll have to smash through the drywall separating us like the Kool-Aid man.

Game on.

Scheme number one: Casually run into her and strike up a civil conversation.

And by ‘run into her,' I do mean find her in her bedroom, where she's getting naked for hundreds of men who aren't me. And by ‘civil conversation,' I mean buy a private chat.

I don't bother changing out of my suit. I take off my jacket, drape it over the back of my desk chair, and log on.

There's my girl.

Valeria's wearing a sheer white dress thingy, but I don't actually know what it's called. It's skimpy, but lacy with floral patterns in the fabric. If I knew anything about lingerie, I'd probably say it's at least a size too small because it looks a hiccup away from busting open around her incredible breasts. I'm a lawyer though, not a lingerie designer, so I think she looks perfect.

Her long hair is in two thick braids draped over her shoulders. They're tied off with flowers on the ends, pink ones, the same shade as Valeria's lipstick and the neon wall sign that reads, "Where the magic happens" hanging over her headboard.

Even though I'm only a minute or two late, her breasts are already out and she's massaging one with her left hand while she types with the other. Her hand tightens, squeezing and pushing it upwards, before she drags her thumb over her nipple.

God, that's a great nipple.

The fact that I slept with Valeria and never looked at her breasts in real life grates at me. It's the single worst decision I've ever made, even worse than the time when I was nineteen and plastered off J?gerbombs, and a pair of sorority girls said they'd blow me if I made out with Everett. They, in fact, lied. That night I learned three important things: 1) Don't do J?gerbombs; 2) Don't trust sorority girls because they'll manipulate you more ruthlessly than a North Korean despot; and 3) Everett's not a bad kisser.

"Hey, Gary, I've missed you!" Valeria says aloud, every syllable melodic. Her eyes flick across the screen, likely checking out the usernames of the people who just entered her room. "Rob, thanks so much for joining. Hey—"

She flinches. I know why and it makes me grin.

"Hey, Abraham," she finally says before shooting the most fleeting and subtle of glares right at her laptop's camera. I'm such a bastard for enjoying this.

Hey baby, I type in a private message. Send.

I've never sent Valeria a private message, but I have nothing to hide anymore. She knows I'm here.

Her eyes shift to the other side of the screen. I don't know how the website looks on her end, but based on her sigh and pursed lips, I assume she's reading my message. While she reads, her hand drifts down her breast to the tip of her nipple. She fingers it absently, easing it into a point. Her other hand continues to type. When I don't get a response after a minute, I figure she's focusing on some other guy.

I'll have to fix that.

I thought of you a lot today, I type. Send.

It's not a lie. Every moment of my day was dominated by the handful of recent memories she's gifted me. Fucking her into my couch. Kissing her into oblivion on hers. It's been a whirlwind forty-eight hours, but I've made out like a bandit in the fantasies-come-to-life department.

When she continues to ignore my messages, I send her a request for a private room, which she declines. Not surprised.

Onscreen, she scoots her laptop back, fitting more of her body into the frame. She peels her lingerie off slowly, drawing out the anticipation for an entire minute before she's left in nothing but a pair of white panties and a knowing smile on her face.

She lowers her hand, sliding it along her smooth stomach. When she can't go any lower, she cups her mound over her panties, touching herself over the lace. Eventually, her index finger toys with the dip in the fabric where her pussy lips meet, scraping it delicately. It's a fucking tease—and I tip her twenty bucks in tokens for it.

For the next few minutes, I watch her play with herself. The public chat is filled with requests and demands for her to show off that pussy, but she keeps it coy. She's killing me; she's killing all of us, I bet. I'm painfully hard, but I don't touch myself and I don't message her either. I just keep watching.

I never noticed before tonight, but Valeria is restrained on camera. When we fucked, she was forceful. Demanding. She left nail marks on my back—deep ones. But when she plays with herself online, her fingers merely graze her skin—as if she's resisting the temptation to touch herself more roughly.

Despite the tenderness of her ministrations, she's still getting herself off. Her hand continues to massage her pussy over her panties, now pressing the fabric between her lips.

"I can't believe I'm doing this again," she whispers. "I swore I wouldn't be bad like this anymore, but it feels so…"

She doesn't say the word. Instead, she releases a sweet little moan before biting down on her lower lip. With a shy glance up at the camera, her hand shifts and finally slides beneath the lace.

She plunges two of her fingers in. No fanfare, no more teasing. Just the good shit.

I love when you shove your fingers inside, I type into our chat, somehow managing to leave it at that. There are a hundred more things I love about how she pleasures herself, but I'd rather say them to her face.

I send her another request for a private room. This time, she responds with a required rate: the token equivalent of one hundred dollars per minute for a minimum of five minutes. In other words: half a grand for it.

Ah, Valeria. She's fucking with me. Her usual rate is twenty dollars a minute. She's going to make me pay nearly two dollars per second if I want to talk to her alone.

Whatever. I can afford it. Accept rate.

Her eyes widen when the screen begins counting down. Fumbling, she wrenches her hand out from her panties. "Back in five, loves!" she barely has time to say before the website automatically opens a private room for us. Her face fills my laptop screen, and she looks furious.

"You're out of your mind, Lander," she hisses while positioning a pink throw pillow to cover her bare chest.

"Most definitely," I agree, reclining in my chair and letting the ergonomic support cradle me. I feel like a fucking king right now. "How was your day, baby?"

"Fine," she answers, sighing so hard, the pillow against her chest drops a couple of inches.

"What did you do today?"

"Nothing. Sorry—are we making small talk right now?"

"Nothing?" I confirm, ignoring her question. "No worries. I didn't do much either. This morning, I went to the gym. Leg day, but I also did back stuff. After that…let's see. I handled a few fires at the office, ate Thai food at my desk for dinner, mentored a first-year associate. Sort of. Oh, and I had a decent salad for lunch. My buddy Everett got it for me."

If Valeria heard anything I said, she doesn't show it. She exhales again and says, "Lander, I'm working. You can't interrupt me like this."

"I'm a paying customer."

Her mouth opens, but she doesn't speak. I quickly realize she may be thinking the worst.

I hold up my hands. "Don't worry. I'm not expecting you to perform for me. I just want to talk."

"You could walk over here and talk to me." She knocks on the wall behind her. "You didn't have to spend five hundred dollars for a private room."

"Would you have let me in?"

"You don't have to come into my home to have a conversation with me. We have a perfectly good hallway right there."

I snicker. "So I'm allowed to come inside of you, but I can't come in your condo?"

Valeria pulls her lips sideways into a pinch, but she doesn't speak. After a moment, she relaxes her face, but her hand rises and covers her mouth. Is…is she laughing? The thought is so satisfying, it makes me want to laugh.

"You wanted to talk," she mentions after she draws her hand from her face, magically looking as composed as ever. "What about?"

"This is weird timing, but I wanted to tell you I'm clear. I got tested at my physical a couple months ago and I've worn a condom every time since then. Except with you, obviously. Are you…" I trail off.

"Same," she confirms. "Thanks. Normally, I would have asked before, but…"

"But it didn't matter at the time," I finish.

Valeria nods and her eyes drift to the side. She's deep in thought before she clears her throat and says, barely above a whisper, "I have an IUD, so you don't have to worry, but if it would make you feel better I can take…"

"Why would I worry?" I interject, shrugging.

That frown is back on her face. "I assume you're not interested in becoming someone's baby daddy at twenty-something."

"Twenty-seven," I fill in. "And you're right, I'm typically not interested in becoming someone's baby daddy. Typically."

When I emphasize the last word, Valeria rolls her eyes. "You're ridiculous."

"Just being honest. We'd make a cute kid. Although, they'd put two and two together and use their birthday to figure out we conceived them in a panicky, end-of-the-world rush, but that's nothing a little therapy can't solve. My best friend Dalton was born exactly thirty-nine weeks after Bill Clinton was re-elected. That's how we figured out who his parents voted for."

This time, Valeria laughs out loud before she can stop herself. She quickly clasps her hand over her mouth, trying halfheartedly to hide it from me, but it's unmistakable. Truthfully, I've never been prouder of myself—except for the time I made her come on my dick.

"Dalton told this story to Bill Clinton," I go on. "At the Potter's House in Adams Morgan. Have you been? We should check it out together."

My request for a date is premature, but I'm watching my five minutes tick down. A sober expression erases Valeria's smile.

"I'm going back to my room now," she informs me. "Have a good—"

"Hang on. You said five minutes. It hasn't even been three." I tap my watch for emphasis.

Her stare is admonishing, but not totally irate. "Lander, I'm working. I don't go to your office and watch you yell at first-year associates."

"You should. I look unfathomably sexy when I work. I'm like a workplace hazard. HR has quarterly meetings about it."

Valeria cocks an eyebrow. "Look, I can't stop you from watching me, but pulling me aside and messing with my head is shitty. You can't send me these private requests anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because you can't," she reiterates. "As hard as it may be for you to believe, I'm a professional."

"Fuck yeah, you are."

Valeria starts shaking her head. "Lander—"

"I just wanted to talk."

"Commandeering my stream isn't the right way," she explains. "If you can't understand why, it's a testament to my decision not to date a lawyer."

I stop and mull her statement over. I don't fully understand it, but I can tell this scheme is falling flat. Time to back off.

"No more private requests and no dropping by uninvited. I mean it," Valeria continues.

"When can I talk to you then?"

"You don't. You move on. You're disarmingly hot, rich, and successful. I'm sure you have a waitlist of amazing women dying to be with you."

I raise a brow. "So you think I'm hot?"

"Lander, is that seriously all you heard?"

"I'm kidding. I heard it all, baby. No private requests? Done. But you told me you don't like people telling you what to do, and I don't either. I want you, Valeria. I'm going to keep wanting you."

This time, when she sighs, the tinge of a smile on her lips is obvious. She doesn't embrace it, but she doesn't try to hide it either. "You're going to keep hitting on me? You're going to keep trying to seduce me as if you don't have a thousand more important things to do with your time?"

"Sure am. You look so fucking beautiful today, by the way."

She raises an eyebrow, looking amused and contemplative all at once. Something passes over her expression, a smooth shift from contemplative to sheepish, I think.

Slowly, she folds her lips over her teeth and presses them together before releasing them with an audible pop. "So do you, Lander," she finally answers before she straightens and tosses the throw pillow to the side, exposing her bare breasts once more. Her hands rise to touch them. "You're incredible in your expensive suit. You look so smart and professional…but I think I'd like you better without it."

I freeze…What the hell is happening here?

"Come on," she urges, shifting closer to the camera, bringing her breasts closer—and fuck, they are magnificent. "Let me see your body. I know you take such good care of it, going to the gym and all. Don't you want to show me? I can't stop thinking about how sexy all your muscles looked from below. All those cords. All those veins. I wanted to trace them with my wet, pink tongue, Lander."

My brain is short circuiting. I'm hearing what she's saying and it's so sexy—inconceivably sexy—but I have no clue how we got to this point.

"Are you shy? I'm shy sometimes too," she practically coos, shifting to perch on her shins. "Just the cock, handsome, how about that? Won't you please take it out for me? I want to see it get hard."

Surprised, I look down at my crotch, where my guy is basically screaming, Put me in, coach! "Actually, I'm already—"

"I'm obsessed with the memory of your big cock in me," she continues, closing her eyes. "I can't believe you made it fit. And the way you left all that hot cum inside of me? I went back to my condo and shoved my little fingers in. Touched it. Played with it. I knew it was wrong, but I wanted to feel it. Taste it. You were sodelicious, Lander. I was practically drooling over your taste. Do you want to put more cum in me?"

I'm fumbling with my pants, trying to get myself free, but work attire isn't simple. It's belts and slacks and these really skinny zippers that are making a fool of me right now because I can't get—

"Don't make me wait," Valeria tuts, shoving out her plump lower lip. "You only have twenty seconds left." She leans close to the screen, tits and all in HD. "Can I tell you a secret? Something just for us?"

Everything is racing—my pulse, my blood, my lungs—and yet I'm unmoving, waiting with bated breath for whatever she wants to tell me.

Valeria licks her lips and says in the sultriest, huskiest whisper I've ever heard, "You were the first guy I ever touched, but I knew I wanted to give you my virginity."

Immediately, I stop everything.

Fuck. FUCK.

I can't believe I didn't realize sooner: She's messing with me.

"Oh you're good," I mutter, shaking my head. "You're good, baby. You had me."

There's a deservedly smug expression on her face. "Careful with that thing," she mentions, raising her chin at my erect cock, which is bulging against my boxer briefs. "You'll put your eye out."

The timer on the chat ticks down. Five. Four.

She waves, casually wiggling her fingers like she didn't just carry out a Machiavellian deception.

Three. Two.

Right before the timer drains, I see another smile on her lips.

One.

She's gone, and I'm left shoving my disappointed dick back into my pants and figuratively scooping my jaw off the floor of my living room.

But as strange as it sounds, I have a good feeling about this. I really think I'm getting somewhere.